
Class _ 

Book 

GoipghtN"- 



COFYRIGHT DEPOSm 






FEENCH LITEEATUHE. 



HAND-BOOK 



OF 



FRENCH LITERATURE: 



>"^; 



(isteical, ^bgri^litiil, anb Crifiral. 



REVISED AND EDITED 



By JAMES B. ANGELL, 

PROFESSOR OF MODERN LANGUAGES^ BROWN UNIVERSITY. 




.>^- 



PUBLISHED BY H. COWPERTHWAIT & CO., 

No. 609 CHESTNUT STREET. 

185T- 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 

H. COWPERTHWAIT & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for 
the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



HEARS & DUSENBERT, SMITH & PETERS, 

BTEREOTTPERS AND ELECTROTTPERS. PRINTERS. 



EDITOR'S PREFACE. 



This Edition of Chambers's "well known Hand-book 
of French Literature — a work which is written with 
acknowledged care and judgment and taste — has been 
prepared for the use of the numerous students of 
French in our schools and colleges. With reference to 
their wants, the following changes and additions have 
been made by the American Editor. 

An Essay on the History and Characteristics of the 
French Language has been prefixed to the History of 
the Literature. Certain portions of the original work, 
which were deemed unnecessary in a text-book, have 
been omitted. Brief notices of Christine de Pisan, 
Alain Chartier, Le Sage, and Provost, and biographical 
sketches of Bourdaloue, Massillon, and J. B. Rousseau, 
have been introduced. Foot-notes have been added, 
which give the dates of the birth and death of many 
writers, and refer the student to English Biographies 
and Essays, descriptive of the life and writings of the 
1* (5) 



VI EDITOR S PREFACE. 

inost renowned French authors. Attention has also 
been called to some of those productions in English 
Literature, which have been modified either in form or 
in spirit, by the influence of French Literature. Of 
course all have not been enumerated which might 
serve this purpose, but only those which are to be 
found in almost every public library. 

It is hoped that this little book may awaken and 
maintain, in the large class for whom it is designed, an 
intelligent interest in the French Language and Lite- 
rature. 

Brown University, May, 1857. 



PREFACE. 



Almost every one now learns something of French. 
But among the many who acquire as much knowledge 
of the language as to understand any passage they may 
occasionally meet, there are comparatively few who 
have any general acquaintance with the literature of 
France — perhaps we might say there is a large propor- 
tion who have never read a single volume of it besides 
their school text-books. They have heard of Montaigni^^' 
Corneille, Racine, Moliere, Boileau, Fontaine, Rousseau, 
Voltaire ; but they have no distinct knowledge of the 
leading characteristics of their works, or of the circum- 
stances under which their genius developed itself. Still 
less have they any well-defined ideas of the literature 
as a whole, of the distinguishing features of each of its 
ages, or of the progressive steps by which the national 
mind of France has attained its present position. It is 
for such, chiefly, that the present volume has been 
written. Fain would we disarm criticism by protestinsj 

(7) 



Vlll PREFACE. 

with Malherbe, that we have not been ^' dressing meat 
for cooks ;'' and that we pretend not to offer any addi- 
tion to the knowledge of those who are already familiar 
with this literature; for even had it been within the 
compass of our talent, it would not have comported 
with our design, nor yet with our limits, to enter upon 
anything like minute criticism. We have collected 
facts which are undisputed ; and embodied in a popular 
way those general opinions which lie on the surface of 
literary history : but the depths we have not presumed 
to fathom. 

Having designed the work, as has been intimated, 
principally for those who have passed through the 
usual course of education, we have deemed it unneces- 
sary, and indeed undesirable, to furnish English ver- 
sions of the specimens, except those of the earlier ages, 
which, in the original, would be unintelligible to 
ordinary French scholars in this country ; and here, as 
matter of curiosity, we have generally added the old 
French in foot-notes. 

Margaret Foster. 

Edinburgh, July, 1854. 



CONTENTS. 



EAGB 
HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE 13 

INTRODUCTION 33 



THE MIDDLE AGES. 

I. THE TROUBADOURS— 

THE PEOVEN9AL LANGUAGE — GENERAL CHAEACTER OP ITS 
POETRY — EROTIC POETRY OF THE TROUBADOURS — SIR- 
VENTES — DEVOTIONAL POETRY — POEMS ON THE CRUSADE'S 
DECAY OF TROUBADOUR POETRY — AND OF THE PRO- 
VENCAL LANGUAGE 35-63 

n. THE TROUVERES— 

RISE OF THE LANGUE D*OIL OR ROMANCE WALLON — IT 
MERGES INTO NORMAN-FRENCH — CHIVALROUS ROMANCES 
— LAYS — ALLEGORICAL POEMS — FABLIAUX — HISTORICAL 
ROMANCES — LYRIC POETRY — CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS 
— THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS 63-93 

in. DRAMATIC POETRY- 
DESTRUCTION OF THE ANCIENT THEATRE — THEATRICAL EX- 
HIBITIONS IN CHRISTIAN CHURCHES — THE MYSTERIES — 
THAT OF THE PASSION — THE MORALITIES . . . 93-100 

(9) 



CONTENTS. 



IV. POETRY IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY- 
STATE OF THE LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE — CHRISTINE DE 

PIS AN — ALAIN CHARTIER — CHARLES D'ORLEANS — VILLON 101-104 

Y. EARLY FRENCH PROSE- 
CHRONICLERS OF PERSONAL ADVENTURES — VILLE-HARDOUIN 
— JOINVILLE — THE PROFESSIONAL HISTORIAN PROISSART 
— ROMANCE OF MERLIN IN PROSE — COMINES, A PHILOSO- 
PHICAL HISTORIAN 105-113 



THE AGE OF TRANSITION, 1500-1650. 

VI. THE RENAISSANCE AND REFORM— 

V MARGUERITE DE VALOIS — MAROT — RABELAIS — MONTAIGNE 

— CHARRON — ST. FRANCOIS DE SALES — SATIRE MENIPPEE 114-138 

VII. LIGHT LITERATURE— 

RONSARD — HARDY — REGNIER — MALHERBE — BALZAC — VOI- 
TURE — MALLEVILLE — SCARRON — THE HOTEL DE RAM- 
BOUILLET — THE FRENCH ACADEMY .... 139-153 

Vni. PHILOSOPHY- 
DESCARTES — PASCAL « 153-162 

IX. THE DRAMA— 

CORNEILLB 162-175 



AGE OF LOUIS XIV. 

X. VARIOUS INFLUENCES COMBINING TO FORM THE LITERA- 
TURE OF THIS PERIOD— DIRECT INFLUENCE OF THE KING 176-180 



XI. TRAGEDY- 
RACINE, HIS LIFE AND WORKS — ANALYSIS OF ATHALIE — 

MINOR TRAGIC AUTHORS OF THIS PERIOD — THE OPERA . 180-194 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAQB 
Xn. COMEDY- 
REMARKS ON FRENCH COMEDY — MOLIERE'S LIFE AND WORKS 

LES PRECIEUSES RIDICULES — SCENE FROM TARTUFE 

LE MISANTHROPE — DEATH OF MOLIERE — MINOR COMIC 
DRAMATISTS OF THIS AGE 194-210 

XIII. FABLES AND TALES IN VERSE— 

FONTAINE, HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER — TALES — FABLES — 

ANECDOTES — HIS SICKNESS, CONVERSION, AND DEATH . 210-225 

XIV. SATIRICAL, MOCK-HEROIC, AND OTHER POETRY— 

BOILEAU, HIS EARLY LIFE — SATIRES — ART OF POETRY — THE 
LUTRIN — EPISTLES — ANECDOTES — HIS DEATH — NARROW 
SPHERE OF POETRY — MADAME DESHOULIERES . . 226-246 

XV. ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT AND BAR- 

INFLUENCE OF LOUIS XIV. ON PULPIT ELOQUENCE — BOSSUET, 
HIS LIFE AND WORKS — BOURDALOUE — MASSILLON — FLE- 
CHIER — SAURIN — FORENSIC ORATORS .... 246-264 

XVI. THE MORALISTS- 

ROCHEFOUCAULD — LA BRUYERE — NICOLE . . . 265-271 

XVII. HISTORY AND MEMOIRS— 

BOSSUET, MEZERAY, ST. REAL, FLEURY, ROLLIN, DE RETZ, 

ST. SIMON, COUNT HAMILTON 271-280 

XVIII. ROMANCE AND LETTER-WRITING— 

MADAME DE LA FAYETTE — FENELON— SEVIGNE — MAINTENON 280-295 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 

XIX. THE DAWN OF SCEPTICISM- 
CONTRAST BETWEEN THE SPIRIT OP THE SEVENTEENTH AND 
THAT OP THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY — TRANSITION — BAYLE 

— J. B. ROUSSEAU — CHAULIEU — LE SAGE — PREVOST 

FONTENELLE — LA MOTTE 



296-305 



Xll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XX. OPEN ATTACK ON RELIGION AND GOVERNMENT— 

Montesquieu's lettres persanes — esprit des lois — 
dialogue between sylla and eucrates — voltaire — 

CHARACTER OP HIS GENIUS — HIS LIFE AND WORKS . . 305-329 

XXI. THE SCEPTICAL AND REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT TRIUMPHANT— 

THE ENCYCLOPEDISTS — THEIR TENETS EXPOUNDED BY CON- 
DILLAC — APPLICATION OP THEIR PHILOSOPHY IN DIF- 
FERENT DEPARTMENTS OF LITERATURE— d'ALEMBERT — 
DIDEROT — HELVETIUS — MABLY — VAUVENARGUE— BONNET 

— J. J. Rousseau's life and works — buffon — marmon- 

TEL — LA HARPE — HISTORY — ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT 
AND BAR — PASTORAL TALES AND FABLES — THE REVOLU- 
TION — POETRY OF ANDRE CHENIER .... 329-377' 



THE NINETEENTH CENTUEY. 

XXn. RISE OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL- 

MADAME DE STAEL — MADAME DE GENLIS — M. LE VICOMTE 

DE CHATEAUBRIAND 378-401 

XXIII. A NEW CAREER- 
HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY — SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY- 
LITERARY CRITICISM — NEW FEATURES IN POETRY — NOV- 
ELS AND PLAYS 402-422 

XXIV. NOVELS AND DRAMAS 

GENERAL CHARACTER OP THE LITERATURE WHICH FOL- 
LOWED THE REVOLUTION OP 1830 — VICTOR HUGO — HIS 
NOTRE DAME — ALFRED DE VIGNY — BALZAC — GEORGE 
SAND — PAUL DE KOCK — A. DUMAS — VICTOR HUGO'S 
MARION DELORME — CONCLUSION 422-432 



HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS 



OF THE 



FEENCH LANGUAGE. 



Every people^ wlio have chosea France for their home, have 
left their impress upon the national tongue. A few words of 
the gay and graceful Iberians still linger in the French, as the 
scattered remnants of that wonderful nation yet cling to their 
mountain homes. The Celts were invaded by Grecian civili- 
zation from the south, by Roman civilization from the east, 
and by Frankish barbarism from the North; yet they left 
behind them memorials of their existence, which were more 
enduring than brass or stone. Fragments of their language 
have survived all the revolutions which have ravaged their 
land. Several of the words which were known to the fierce 
warriors of Lutetia, are heard to-day in the streets of Paris. 
The Greeks, who founded Marseilles, Nice, Antibes, and 
other cities along the shores of the Mediterranean, gave to the 
land of their adoption many of the expressions which belong 
to a refined and commercial nation.* The very name, France, 

'^^ Many French words of Greek origin were introduced at a later period, 
but Ampere traces a number back to the ancient colonists from Greece. 
2 (13) 



14 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

points US to the irruption of the Frankish tribes from the 
Rhine; and such words as guerre^ hanniere^ houlevard, still 
remain to indicate what was the art which they taught to the 
conquered Gauls. 

But the essential elements of the present language were 
brought into France by the Eoman legions and colonists. By 
far the greater part of its words and constructions is derived 
from the Latin. Bom an arts always followed Eoman arms. 
The Latin works which were written in Gaul, no less than the 
vast amphitheatres, and aqueducts, and triumphal arches, 
which are scattered from the Alps to the Pyrenees, tell us 
of the days of Eoman splendor in the favorite transalpine 
province. Gallic poets caught up the lyre of Virgil and Ho- 
race, and sang in strains which were not despised at Eome. 
Gallic legions fought beneath the Eoman eagles. Gallic sena- 
tors sat between Cicero and Brutus. Gallic scholars instructed 
Eoman citizens in medicine and in oratory. Sixty cities of 
Gaul erected altars to Augustus. Latin was the language of 
the cities, and of all who aspired to learning, throughout the 
south of Gaul.* 

It must not be supposed that a pure and classical Latin was 
spoken even by the Eoman legions themselves. They were 
drawn from all the provinces of the vast Eoman empire. The 
common people of the cities of Gaul learned the corrupt pro- 
vincial dialects of the colonists and soldiers, and mingled with 
them many of the words and idioms of their own vernacular. 
It is impossible to say how rapidly the rustic Latin, thus 
formed, was adopted by the people in the country. Though 
scholars have learnedly and earnestly discussed the subject, 
their opinions are still extremely discordant. The introduc- 
tion of Christianity of course made the language of the church 

*^ See Michelet's History of France, Vol. I. p. 50. 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 15 

. familiar to the priests througliout the whole of Gaul. But 
they seem to have been sensibly affected by their intercourse 
with the people ; for their Latin gradually lost many of its 
distinctive features, and assumed the coarse and irregular 
forms of the rustic tongue. Even the learned Gregory of 
Tours, in the sixth century, shows a most independent disre- 
gard of all rules of agreement, whether in gender, number, or 
case. He writes, invocato nomen dominij excepto fiUahu^, 
and de ecclesmm. 

The Frankish race never attempted to force their harsh and 
guttural tongue upon the conquered people. They had the 
wisdom to rule through the clergy, and the clergy were the 
conservators of the Latin element. Even Charlemagne, with 
all his ambition for the unity of his extended empire, gave to 
the language of the Gauls but a very few words of German 
origin. By assiduous study of the Frankish language, by 
using it at his court, by wearing the Frankish dress, by col- 
lecting the popular ballads of Germany, and by the establish- 
ment of schools, he cultivated in the Germans a national spirit 
and a love for their national tongue. But he suffered the 
Gauls to speak their own language. He made liberal provi- 
sions for their instruction in Latin. He did not encourage 
any efforts to perfect the rustic tongue. He permitted the 
Latin and the Teutonic to overshadow it; and perhaps he 
hoped that, deprived of the sunlight of royal and scholastic 
favor, it would pine and perish. But it was now too deeply 
rooted in the affections of the people to die of neglect. Though 
untended and unpruned by grammarians and monarchs, it had 
all the elements of vigorous life. The priests were obliged to 
lay aside the language of the church, and speak and preach 
intelligibly to the people. The council of Rheims in 813 — 
the subsequent one at Tours — and that at Mayence in 847, 
enjoined upon the prelates to translate their sermons into the 



16 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

langue rustique romane, in order tliat all the hearers might 
understand. 

This tongue received a new impulse from the division of 
the empire by the sons of Charlemagne, and the erection of a 
kingdom of the Gauls. It became a written language and the 
language of a court. The Frankish retreated across the 
Rhine ; and the first recorded specimen of the language of 
France is the oath, which was taken by Louis the German and 
by the subjects of Charles the Bald, in 842."^ 

But the vulgar tongue was not yet the language of learning 
and of law. Indeed, at this very time, scholars like Adalberon 
and Gerbert and Richer, devoted themselves to purifying their 
Latin, and thus rendering their thoughts inaccessible to the 
nation. All edicts and cartularies, all works of poetry, history, 
and philosophy, were written in Latin. The great mass of the 
inhabitants were utterly ignorant ; and so, although they had 
cast off the supremacy of the Franks, the scholars and clergy 
and monarchs still held them bound beneath the domination 
of Latinity. The establishment of the Capetian Kings upon 
the throne, seemed to promise for a time an impulse towards 
a national feeling, and the development of a national language 
in central France. But feudalism rendered permanent unity 
impossible, and the minds of men were buried in hopeless 
apathy by the fear of the approaching end of the world. The 
year 1000, which was predicted as the time for universal 
destruction, passed quietly by. A reaction followed this 
torpor. France awakened into life. The clarion of war re- 
sounded. The Normans poured themselves on to the shores 
of FiUgland, and laid her prostrate at their feet. They seized 
upon Naples and Sicily. The orifiamme was raised. The 
crusades were preached, and the cry of St. Bernard, Diex el 
volt J was heard upon the walls of Jerusalem. The spirit and 

* See page 63. 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 17 

vigor of tlie invincible warriors were breathed into tbe forming 
language. In the reign of Louis IX., the last and best of the 
royal crusaders, it had acquired a strength, a boldness, and a 
precision, which characterize the utterances of a daring and 
passionate people. 

We find that so early as this the language of the north of 
France was considerably different from that of the south. The 
first contained more of the Gaelic and Frankish elements, and 
was, consequently, harsher and bolder than the second, which 
resembled the Latin quite closely, and was flexible, smooth, 
and harmonious. The former was called the langue cVoll (oui), 
and was subsequently used by the Trouv^res, who wrote most 
of the ancient Allegories, Legends, and Fabliaux. The latter 
was the langue d^oCy and was the tongue of the famous Trouba- 
dours.'^ The weaker and more beautiful language of the south 
yielded at last to the ruder and stronger langue d'ouij and 
therefore it is only the history of the latter which we have to 
trace. 

So rapidly did it change its form during these years of 
transition to which we have alluded, that the children scarcely 
understood the words of their grandparents. There were no 
settled rules of orthography. Every generation reproduced 
the works of the past in a modified form of spelling. For 
instance, the version of the first verse of the first psalm stood 
thus at the end of the twelfth century : — 

" Beoneuret li horn ki ne alat el conseil de f^luns, en la veie de 
pecheurs ne stout, et en la chaere des escharnisurs ne sist." 

And at the end of the thirteenth, thus, 

*'Beneit soit le bier qui ne foreie el cunseil des engr^s, et ne estuet 
en voie de p^cheours, et ne siet en la chaiere de pestilence." 



* See page 63. 
2* 



18 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

It was natural that a manly and chivalric people should 
make their first intellectual efforts in celebrating the praises 
of their heroes. Accordingly we find that the earliest monu- 
ments of the literature of France are the songs and tales, 
which recount the deeds of Roland^ Oliver, and Charlemagne. 
While the freshness and naivete of the language in its youth 
fitted it to paint the scenes, and embody the spirit of a pri- 
mitive age, the earnest labors of the earliest narratars and 
poets hastened its development^ and prepared it for the mani- 
fold purposes of advancing civilization. We find it at the 
beginning of the thirteenth century capable of describing 
with simplicity and power a great historical event, the capture 
of Constantinople in 1204 by the French. The brave old 
soldier, Villehardouin, tells the story with an artlessness and 
truthfulness, which charm us even at this day. The cham- 
pions of learning, the doctors of the famous University of 
Paris, were frowning upon the vulgar tongue. They were 
fiercely discussing in their choicest Latin those subtle ques- 
tions of Nominalism and Realism, which so completely ab- 
sorbed the loftiest minds of the whole of Europe. They 
little dreamed that the day would com^e, when the words of 
the unlettered chronicler would be more zealously and lovingly 
pondered by the Parisian scholar than the profound and 
witty discussions of John of Parma and Guillaume de St. 
Amour. 

The language soon acquired new honors from the second 
great prose writer, Jean, Sire de Joinville. At the request 
of Jeanne, the wife of Philip the Fair, he wrote the Life of 
St. Louis. The language in his hands was less cautious and 
timid in its utterances than in those of Villehardouin, and far 
more flexile and graceful. It had something of the freedom 
and carelessness of conscious strength. The biographer's con- 
temporaries, Marie de France and Thibaut, Com to de Cham^ 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 19 

pagne, show us by their lai8 and chansons, and Guillaume de 
Loris by bis famous Roman de la Rose, that their language 
already possessed considerable richness, harmony, and rhyth- 
mical power. During the residence of the French at Con- 
stantinople they had borrowed many words and idioms from 
the Greeks, and had polished and refined many of their ver- 
nacular expressions in accordance with the principles of a 
classical taste. They have always been peculiarly susceptible 
to the elevating influences of Grecian culture. When the 
Mohammedans laid waste the Eastern Empire, and scattered 
the distinguished scholars of its capital over Western Europe, 
nowhere were those representatives of learning more warmly 
welcomed, and nowhere were their teachings more ardently 
received than at the schools of philosophy in Paris. 

If we pass from the earliest prose wi'iters of France to those 
of the fourteenth century, we first meet with Froissart, the 
chronicler of the brave old days of courtly life in the land 
of our fathers as well as in France. His style is more studied 
and severe, though perhaps less thoroughly infused with the 
genuine spirit of French than that of his great predecessor, 
Joinville. Latin was already going forth from the university, 
and binding the language of the people in the fetters of scho- 
lastic formality. The natural coloring, the youthful strength, 
and the buoyant freedom of the French were now in peril. 
The violent commotions in the reigns of Charles VI. and 
Charles VII. seriously retarded the progress of letters. Yet 
their Secretary was Alain Chartier, who is supposed to have 
invented the rime redoubUe and the rondeau. 

In the reign of Louis XI., so dark with many a scene of 
cruelty, the dawn of a brighter day for the national language 
and literature became clearly apparent. His patronage of 
scholars, his encouragement of printing, the poetiy of Villon, 
and the history of Comines, all foretold an approaching Re- 



20 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

vival of Letters. Villon^ wlio was a greater knave than poet, 
and who twice escaped the hangman's cord by royal favor, 
rendered an incalculable service to the language by daring to 
employ in his poems the words of every-day life. These 
always form the real riches of a language. All scholars and 
critics from Marot to Boileau have united in acknowledging 
their indebtedness to this singular poet of fripons. Comines 
wrote the memoirs of his royal master, and was the first 
French writer who rose above the work of the chronicler 
almost to the art of the historian, and gave to the language a 
precision and power which were not again seen till the time 
of Montaigne. 

With the accession of Francis I. to the throne the national 
tongue attained new honors and privileges, but was also en- 
compassed by dangers, which it was scarcely prepared to 
resist. Then, for the first time, the laws of the realm were 
recorded and proclaimed in French. The court was filled 
with poets and scribblers. Authors were as highly honored 
by the king as knights had been by Louis IX. A princess 
was prouder of her writings than of her noble birth. In a 
word French became fashionable ; and from that moment its 
purity was in peril. It changed its form and character with 
every caprice of a fickle court. The gentlemen, who had been 
to the wars in Italy, brought home Italian expressions, with 
which they overloaded their French. Thus originated that 
corrupt jargon, which Henri Estienne called the courtisanes' 
qucy and which was so long heard in all the salons of Paris. 

The Italian influence was strongly opposed by the classical 
scholars and by the first Protestant reformers. The earliest 
opponents of the Komish faith cherished and defended the 
language of the people; and had they continued to use it, as 
Luther employed the popular German, who knows but France 
would to-day be a Protestant land ? But they soon became 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 21 

ambitious to meet the scholars of tlie ancient church upon 
their own ground, and defeat them with their own scholastic 
weapons. They expended their power in learned discussions 
in Latin, and employed their time in confounding doctors 
rather than in preaching glad tidings to the multitude. The 
impulse which they thus gave to the study of Latin was 
warmly seconded by the classical students, whd had begun to 
fear that their favorite studies would be entirely neglected in 
the ardent cultivation of French. The priests and monks, 
who had almost the entire control of public education, were 
trembling lest the Bible should be translated and placed in 
the hands of the laity. 

But, though many of the Protestants became involved in 
endless theological disputations in Latin, some of them left 
an impress on the popular language, which is clearly visible 
down to this day. There was Clement Marot, the translator 
of the Psalms, the graceful and delicate poet, from whom 
La Fontaine was proud to draw inspiration. There was 
Marguerite of Navarre, the protector of the perse<3uted, the 
patroness of French poets, a writer herself of no little merit. 
There were also the grammarian Ramus, the renowned scho- 
lars the Estiennes, and Theodore De Beze. There too was 
John Calvin, whose services to the French language were 
almost as conspicuous as those which he rendered to religion. 
It was not till the langue d^oll became the organ of the 
Huguenots, that it crossed the Loire, and made its conquests 
in the southern provinces. Then, for the first time, it was 
heard alike at La Rochelle, at Paris, at Nismes, at Lyons, at 
Geneva, and also in Holland, that asylum of the oppressed, 
whence for two hundred years it sent forth its boldest and 
ablest works to the world. Thus, though the faith of the 
Protestants has not conquered France, it is the language of 



22 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

the Protestants which is heard from Calais to Marseilles, and 
from Bordeaux to the Rhine. 

It may seem somewhat strange that no one should have 
attempted to write a French grammar, until Francis I. had 
been fourteen years upon the throne. It is still more strange 
that the first French grammar should have been written by an 
Englishman, and printed at London. John Palsgrave, an 
eminent scholar, who had studied at Cambridge and Oxford 
and Paris, was employed by Henry VIII. to teach French to 
the Princess Mary, who was to marry Louis XII. in 1514. 
After the death of the French king, the widow was married to 
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk; and probably at her sug- 
gestion, the duke urged Palsgrave to prepare a French gram- 
mar for the use of the court. Accordingly in 1530 he pub- 
lished one with the following title, ^^ L^ Esclarcissement de la 
Langue frangoise,^^^ He is distinguished for his simplicity, 
clearness, and good sense. He says that French was spoken 
most correctly between the Seine and the Loire. He alludes 
to the influence of the courtisanesque style upon the pronun- 
ciation at Paris. He reproaches the Parisians for calling 
themselves Pazisiens, and for saying Mazie instead of Marie, 
Most of the rules which he lays down, are as applicable now 
as they were at that time. It is highly probable that he first 
regularly used the acute accent to mark the sharp e. 

The famous miser and brilliant scholar, Jacques Dubois, 
surnamed Sylvius, equally renowned for his meanness and 
learning, was the first Frenchman who composed a grammar 
of his language. It was written in Latin, and published in 
1531. His vanity prompted him to speak as a dictator. He 
invented a new orthography, in which some of the letters of 
the alphabet were dropped, and several new characters were 

* This work is exceedingly rare. France has only one copy, and that 
is in the Mazarin Library. 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 23 

introduced. But the only suggestion of Dubois whicli has 
been approved by subsequent writers^ is the use of the grave 
accent over the open e. 

In 1550, Louis Meigret, a scholar from Lyons, who had 
settled in Paris, published, a ^^ Trette de la Grammere Fran- 
coize,^^ in which he contended that the orthography ought to 
conform to the pronunciation. The theory was very plausible ; 
but the difficult question at once arose, Whose pronunciation 
should be adopted ? The courtiers from the various provinces 
pronounced the same word very differently. Meigret^s attempt 
to introduce a phonographic system met with many insuperable 
objections. Yet it was he who first proposed to write noire ^ 
hU, arreter, &c., in their present form, to substitute y for i in 
such words as moyen^ royal, rayon, and to use the apostrophe 
where a vowel is omitted or elided. 

The vexed question of orthography was finally settled in 
French, as it must be in every language, against the party who 
wished to follow the pronunciation. Each generation changes 
the sound of many words, and if the spelling were changed 
accordingly, the books of one century would be as difficult for 
the next to understand, as the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer 
are for the children of our day. Besides, the history of a 
word is contained in its form. Its resemblance to its family 
tells us its origin, and if a glance at it carries us back to the 
home from which it has come, it stands before us filled with 
new life and clothed with new power. 

Robert Estienne, the father of Henry, published at Geneva 
during his exile a Traicte de la Grammaire frangoise. This 
renowned printer and scholar followed the plan of systematic 
works on Latin grammar. He traced the constructions and 
words back to their original source, and clearly developed the 
principles which ought to guide all writers in their use. 

The passionate study of Greek by the French scholars of 



24 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

the sixteenth century^ produced a visible effect upon the form 
of words in. their vernacular. They evidently aimed to give a 
learned and classical air to their language. Since each pro- 
posed such modifications as suited his taste, or most signally 
displayed his scholarship, we find the most wonderful diversity 
in the spelling of that age. It was also more complicated, 
cumbrous, and pedantic than that of the fifteenth or that of 
the seventeenth century. If we compare a page of Rabelais 
with a page of Ramus or of Montaigne, and a chapter of either 
with one of Philippe de Comines and one of Bossuet, we shall 
be surprised to observe how great is the difference in the 
orthography of the three contemporaries, and how much more 
the spelling of the fifteenth century resembles that of the seven- 
teenth, than it does that of the intervening sixteenth. It is 
true that the language was enriched by this first contact with 
the Greek. And the classical ardor of Henry Estienne and 
of the group of scholars who clustered around him, probably 
stayed the invasion of Italian corruptions which were then 
pouring in upon France. They loved the Greek, and they 
asserted the excellence of the French, because it resembled the 
Greek more nearly than did the Italian. They accused the 
Italians of having borrowed the chief beauties of their language 
from the French. They strove to show the richness and variety 
of the French by exhuming old words of the days of Marot, 
and drawing the most expressive words from the various patois 
of the provinces. But while they thus contributed to the ele- 
vation and development of their language, they perilled its 
purity and naturalness by their love for classical learn- 
ing. They saved it from the Italian, but they almost sur- 
rendered it to the Greek and the Latin. How are the style 
of Amyot, the translator of Plutarch, and that of the genial 
Montaigne tinged with the coloring of their ancient masters 
and models ! Ronsard, the poet laureate of the court of Charles 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 25 

IX.j and tlie circle of poets whom lie called his PUiade, intro- 
duced not only classical thoughts and idioms^ but sometimes 
Greek and Latin words into their verses^ 

^' Leur muse en fran9ais parla grec et latin.'* 

But, happily for the fortunes of the language, Malherhe 
appeared, '' the tyrant of words and syllables/^ His taste, his 
studies, and his position all fitted him for the work of reforma- 
tion to which he was called. He hated Greek and the whole 
classical school of poets in France. He turned with delight 
to Villon and Marot, and studied the language of the people. 
He declared that the porters of grain spoke the best French. 
In the spirit of the severest criticism he scanned every meta.- 
phor, weighed every word, and insisted on the utmost clear- 
ness of conception and expression. While in the agonies of 
denth he suddenly rose up in bed, and in violent terms cor- 
rected the bad pronunciation of his attendants. His con-, 
fessor having gently reproved him for this outburst of passion 
at such a time, he replied, ^^I will defend the purity of the 
French language even to the moment of my death.'' 

Henry IV. was by no means reluctant to favor a man, who 
openly combated the literary champions of his royal predeces- 
sors and enemies. He was glad to destroy the imposing prestige 
which the works of distinguished poets had lent to the reigns 
of Catherine de Medicis and her sons. He desired to supplant 
the love which his people had cherished for Italian and classi- 
cal productions, by a national pride and enthusiasm. He 
wished to make his subjects patriots and Frenchmen. He 
therefore warmly seconded Malherbe by every means in his 
power. Classical circumlocutions and allegories, and Italian 
vices and conceits, were banished from the Louvre. The court 
at last took pride in speaking French. 

But though Italian affectation was driven from the house- 
hold of the king, it was not without a refuge and a home. 



26 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

Almost under the shadow of the Louvre lived a brilliant lady, 
of Italian descent, Catherine de Vivonne, Marquise de Ram- 
bouillet. Around her was gathered a court, which, in numbers, 
elegance, and genius, rivalled that of the monarch himself. 
The numerous disciples of Ronsard, the polished courtiers of 
the fallen house of Valois, aspiring poets, who feared the 
sternness of Malherbe, and all the nobles, who were opposed to 
the king, thronged her elegant salon. The hostile parties 
showered satires upon each other, and the issue of the con- 
test seemed doubtful, so long as the king was alive. But in 
1610 he died, and his mother, Marie de Medicis, obtained the 
regency. She graciously favored the Hotel de Rambouiliet 
with her protection and patronage. Her administrator, Con- 
cini, a Florentine, invited to the court Marini, a Neapolitan 
cavalier. He joined to his Italian nature something of the 
dignity of Castilian manners, and was as perfect a master of 
the strained and turgid style of the Spaniards, as of the 
learned and artificial style of his native land. This hero of 
the world of madrigals and sonnets and flowers was chosen by 
the circle of heaux esprits to contend with the fierce and un- 
sparing critic, who was loved and admired by the people. 
Marini was really the father of that school, who were called 
the Frecieuses. He taught the art of avoiding the language 
of every-day life, and of rhythmically and gracefully linking 
those words, which belong to the vocabulary of compliments 
and flattery. A critic has happily defined his talent as '' Varti- 
fire (V eorploiter Je neantJ^ But to his influence was due the 
appearance of the St. Amands and Benserades and Theophiles, 
who spent their lives in writing wretched rhymes to the Phil- 
lises, and making bouquets for the Chlorises. The most 
brilliant period in the history of the Hotel de Bambouillet 
•»as between the death of Malherbe in 1629, and that 
Voiture in 1618. At that time its presiding genius was 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 27 

Julie d'Angennes, the daughter of Catherine de Vivonne. As 
this fair ladj sat in her bed * to receive the homage of her 
many admirers, she often saw among them Voiture, Balzac, 
Chapelain, Thomas Corneille, Quinault, Scudery, Scarron, 
Bussy-Rabutin, and the great Corneille ; and of the nobility 
the La Rochefoucaulds, the Clermonts, the Duchesses of Angou- 
leme, of Nemours, of Longueviile, of La Tremouiiie, and even 
the Princes of Conde. 

The Precieuses proposed, as they said, to devulgariser the 
language. They aimed to accomplish this end, not by resort- 
ing to the ancient tongues for assistance, but by developing 
the latent powers of the French. They introduced new uses 
of old words, new names for common things, new combina- 
tions of terms, and a countless number of new comparisons 
and metaphors. f 

It was fortunate for the language that Boileau and Moliere 
came forward to complete the work which Malherbe had 
begun. The first spoke with such power and justice that he 
became a kind of dictator in criticism. His opinions are cited 
as law even at this day. The great father of French comedy 
wielded more delicate and perhaps more^ effective weapons 
than his friend and colleague. The plays called Les Precieuses 
and Les Femmes Savantes held the mirror up to folly. Paris 
laughed at itself, and reformed. 

We must not suppose that the language gained nothing by 
this last great struggle, through which it was compelled to 
pass. Many metaphorical expressions, which are now so fre- 
quently used that we are never reminded of their tropical 
nature, then, for the first time, enriched it by their presence. 
Three of the Precieuses, it is said, also suggested the impor- 
tant changes in orthography, which were afterwards adopted 

'^' See page 149. 
t ^^^ pages 150-1. 



28 HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

by the x\cademy in the second edition of its Dictionary. There 
is no donbt that the hypercriticism and excessive refinement 
of the sensitive poets at the Hotel de Rambouillet called forth 
the lexicographers and grammarians and rhetoricians of the 
reign of Louis XIY. 

No less than three large dictionaries appeared between the 
years 1680 and 1694. The first was written by Richelet and 
published at Geneva. He proposed some changes in ortho- 
graphy ^ gave the etymology of many words, and cited passages 
and referred to authors to show what constituted good usage.* 
Antoine Furetiere published the Dictionnaire Universel at the 
Hague, in 1690. Four years later the Academy brought out 
their great work, after fifty-nine years of labor, and proved 
how well they had toiled for the end which their founder, 
Richelieu, had proposed, ^' to establish fixed rules for the 
French language, and to render it the most perfect of modern 
tongues.'^ They sanctioned those words which elegant usage 
had adopted. They sifted the common language thoroughly. 
Their exacting taste never sacrificed correctness to expressive- 
ness and strength. They unfortunately omitted to explain 
etymologies, to cite passages from good authors, and to intro- 
duce any word or expression which had not the most indisput- 
able claim to a place in their classical vocabulary. Their work 

* His work was a treasury of satire as well as of learning. la illustra- 
ting definitions, he held up to ridicule whatever displeased his cynical 
taste. Thus, under the word wedeein, we find " On dit que le Sieur Finot 
est un chetif medecin.'' At the word vers we read, "Les boutiques des 
espicicrs de Paris sont pleines des oeuvres de Colletet, tant en vers qu'cB 
prose." Again at poetique '^he mariage de Colletet avec sa servante est 
un mariage VTSLiment poetique." To the definition of pedant is added, " De 
tous les animaux domestiques Ti deux pieds, qu'on appelle vulgairement 
peduns, du Clerat est le plus miserable et le plus cancre; il sent le p6dant 
de deux lieues a la ronde." 

This dictionary was afterwards abridged, and, under the title of Din- 
tionnaire de Wailly, was used in all the French schools and colleges. 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 29 

has almost continually been undergoing revision to meet the 
increasing wants of the nation. Having always been under 
the guardianship of that learned body who first gave it to the 
world, its decisions have invariably been received with that 
deference and respect which the opinions of the greatest 
linguists and the ripest scholars are sure to command. 

The critical works of Yaugelas, Menage, Thomas Corneille, 
Patru, Bouhours, D' Olivet, and Boileau, helped to determine 
with precision the laws which governed their language. The 
literature which was formed by their distinguished contempo- 
raries gave permanence and fixedness to those laws. The age 
of Louis XIY. is the classical period in French literature. 
The language then received essentially the form which it has 
since maintained. Yoltaire, with his unsparing knife, after- 
wards pruned it of many excrescences. The romantic school 
of this century have made some innovations. Science and the 
arts in their rapid progress have added many technical terms. 
But the language of the best living writers does not materially 
differ from that of the few great masters of the seventeenth 
century, whom Frenchmen of every variety of opinion delight 
to admire, revere, and imitate. 

It is natural that the countrymen of Eacine and Corneille 
and Pascal should be proud of their language. They are 
accustomed to boast of its great superiority over all the living 
tongues of Europe. While we acknowledge its peculiar merits, 
we cannot perceive in it such marked pre-eminence. 

It has few of the requisites of a poetical language. Although 
not rough, it is not specially melodious. While its vowel 
sounds lack the majesty and fullness of the Italian and Spanish, 
it has not the combinations of consonants, which give strength 
and expressiveness to the English and the German. It admits 
of little change in the order of words. It does not grant the 
poet the iiberty of inversion, and therefore it confines him too 
3 * 



so HISTORY AND CHARACTERISTICS OF 

near]y witliin the limits of prose. It permits very few ellipses. 
It requires tlie writer to express all tliat lie means, and does 
not suffer him to make sketches of pictures which the imagi- 
nation of the reader may delight to complete. It does not 
abound in those picturesque words, whose sound seems to 
indicate the meaning, by imitating the trickling of the rivulet, 
the roaring of the flood, and the howling of the wind. It has 
scarcely any compound words, and therefore is destitute of 
those expressive epithets which are found in many languages^ 
and which are of such service in descriptive poetry. But it 
does possess a delicacy, simplicity, and clearness, which are 
admirably adapted to amatory and sentimental poetry. The 
French ballads and popular songs are unrivalled in beauty. 

It is better suited to oratory than to poetry. The short 
periods, which it generally requires, have great directness and 
power. Its clearness allows long periods to be used without 
unj danger of obscurity. Its precision makes it pointed and 
striking, while it has sufficient flexibility to be flowing, im- 
petuous, and impassioned. It sometimes attains to a marvel- 
lous vividness and intensity. In the hands of Massillon and 
of Bossuet it reaches a fullness and roundness of form which 
remind us of the tongue of the great Roman orator. 

It possesses certain qualities which adapt it to the wants of 
philosophy and science. By its numerous tenses of the verb, 
by its change of terminations to mark differences of gender, 
by its placing all modifying words and clauses as nearly as 
possible to the word which they modify, and by its hostility 
to all inversions in sentences, it gains the power of expressing 
the nicest distinctions and shades of meaning with the greatest 
precision and clearness. French philosophy owes much of its 
renown to the excellence of the language. From the Encyclo- 
pedists to Victor Cousin, the French metaphysicians have 
been, almost without exception, eclectics; and their chief 



THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 81 

merit has been tlie clear exposition of the various systems 
which have been constructed in Greece and Germany and 
England. 

As a medium for conversation the French is acknowledged 
to be unsurpassed. It may well be questioned whether, from 
its easy flow, its classical grace, and its charming sprightliness, 
its greatest achievements have not been in the salon. Its 
whole life has fitted it for colloquial power. It has long been 
the language of almost every court in Europe. The French 
have always especially aspired to elegance and brilliancy in 
society. They consider conversation as a fine art, and make 
it the study of life. The sound of many a word, to which 
they have given a peculiar meaning in connection with some 
witty remark or some striking event, recalls to the mind of 
the hearer a whole train of amusing or thrilling reminiscences. 
The spoken language thus possesses great piquancy and rich- 
ness, and suggests a thousand ideas, which could only be 
expressed by tedious circumlocutions in any other language. 
Its vivacity and rapidity ofi'er great facilities for sallies of wit, 
and for striking repartees. But it has so long been the lan- 
guage of politeness and ceremonious life, that many of its 
words have become hollow and unmeaning, or insincere and 
false. 

The same peculiarities which make the French a good col- 
loquial language also fit it for tales and letters ; for these are 
little more than written conversation. In narrative and epis- 
tolary style the French have always been unequalled. They 
are the best raconteurs in Europe. What language has such 
power as theirs to '' dire des riens avec grace^^ ? In history 
the French language has been used with marked success. It 
seems equally suited to the profound investigations of Guizot 
and to the brilliant descriptions of Thiers. 

While then it may be less musical than the Italian, less 



82 HISTORY, ETC., OF THE FRENCH LANGUAGE. 

majestic than tlie Spanisli^ less raanly than the English, less 
rich and imaginative than the German, it is more delicate and 
lucid than either. 

The French have often predicted that their language would 
become universal. More than once it has threatened to con- 
quer the continent of Europe. It followed the victorious 
armies of Louis XIV. beyond the boundaries of his kingdom 
on every side. Napoleon made it the language of law from 
Egypt to the Frozen Seas, and from Gibraltar to Moscow. 
But at his fall it retreated to its native home. What arms 
could not do for its propagation, fashion, refinement, and lite- 
rature are partially accomplishing. It is now an essential 
element in the education of every school-boy in Europe. It 
is the language of society and of diplomacy at almost every 
court. No one, who claims the name of a scholar, can neglect 
the study of the rich and varied thoughts which it has 
enshrined. But we can hardly conceive of its ever becoming 
the spoken language of the sturdy Teutonic race. It is per- 
fectly suited to the genius of the French ; but it does not 
thrive as an exotic. Neither the French race nor the French 
language possesses that aggressive and conquering tendency 
which forms so striking a characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon 
race and tongue. 



FRENCH LITERATURE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The literature of France lias in all ages borne a national 
rather tlian an individual cliaracter ; it lias been tbe organ of 
the general thought and feeling of the community, each author 
chastening and even stifling his peculiar genius in deference 
to prevailing tastes and' opinions. If this has its value, as 
enabling us to read the common mind in eveiy single work, it 
has its disadvantage, too, as not commanding that kind of 
interest which we feel in forming an acquaintance with writers 
who abandon themselves to their native impulses, and lead us 
with them into regions of daring thought and impassioned 
feeling. The Frenchman never forgets his rule and measure 
— those of his day; and therefore in every page of his book 
we learn how people thought and felt in the circle to which he 
belonged ; not how he himself could have done if he durst. 
^^ He is the organ of all,^^ says Nisard,* ^^ rather than a privi- 
leged person having thoughts which pertain to himself alone, 
and which he imposes on others, in virtue of some extraordi- 
nary prerogative. The man of genius, in France, is he who 

* Histoire de la Litterature Frangaise, i. 17. 

(33) 



34 FRENCH LITERATURE, 

says wliat every one knows. He is only the intelligent echo, 
of the multitude ; and if he wishes us to listen to him, he 
must not seek to astonish us with his particular views, but 
expound to us our own/^ Hence he concludes French litera- 
ture is a living image of that empire of reason over the infe- 
rior powers which is the glory of human nature^ and hence 
the extent of its domain. 

The history of French literature has been divided into seve- 
ral periods of vigor, transition, and decay, more distinctly 
marked as to their characteristics than clearly definable as to 
their eras. To us, it is of most importance to remember that 
France has twice been honored to lead the van in the march 
of European letters. She furnished the first specimens of 
modern, or rather mediasval literature in the compositions of 
the troubadours and trouv^res, who not only awoke the spirit 
of song among their contemporaries, but laid up treasures of 
legendary history and romantic fiction for unborn generations. 
The zenith of this glory was during the twelfth and thirteenth 
centuries. It was followed by a period of decay and obscu- 
rity, passing into one of transition, in which the revival of 
ancient learning, the improved methods of philosophy, and 
the introduction of free inquiry in religion, prepared the 
nation for entering on a new career. Thus was introduced, 
in the latter half of the seventeenth century, that brilliant 
period generally known as the age of Louis XIV., the golden 
age of French literature, which again took the lead in Euro- 
pean progress. During the eighteenth century, it fell once 
more behind, being now eclipsed, not, as before, by the lite- 
ratures of Spain and Italy, but by those of England and Ger- 
many, which have continued in the ascendant. 



THE MIDDLE AGES. 



I.— THE TROUBADOUKS. 

THE PROVENgAL LANGUAGE — GENERAL CHARACTER OF ITS POETRY — EROTIC 

POETRY OF THE TROUBADOURS SIRVENTES DEVOTIONAL POETRY 

POEMS ON THE CRUSADES — DECAY OF TROUBADOUR POETRY — AND OF THE 
PHOVEN9AL LANGUAGE. 

When the old races liad been swept from the earth, or had 
hid themselves under the skirts of the new conquerors, merging 
their nationality that they might be allowed to live, a new chaos 
was generated throughout those regions which Roman domina- 
tion had before reduced to order and stamped with uniformity. 
Into this chaos must he penetrate who would trace the origin 
of the modern nations of Europe, their languages, their lite- 
ratures, and the peculiar genius which belongs to each. Suffice 
it for the present purpose to remark, that one among the new 
languages, that of Provence, or Southern France, was earlier 
cultivated than the rest, and attracted greater attention by 
becoming the organ of a school of poetry which excited the 
emulation of the surrounding nations, and which even now 
possesses a peculiar interest as containing the first germs of 
modern literature in Europe. 

The causes of the premature development of the Provencal 
are to be found chiefly in the social condition of the country. 
While Northern France^ in common with the rest of Europe, 

(35) 



86 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

was subject to tyrannical domination and tlie frequent ravages 
of foreign enemies, the South enjoyed peace and prosperity — 
first under the kings of Aries, and then under the counts of 
Provence — during a period of more than two centuries. 

Feudal law reigned, indeed, here as elsewhere, but in its 
mildest form ; and those frightful cruelties which fill the his- 
tory of. Northern France, seem rarely to have occurred in the 
South; while the institutions of chivalry lent their aid in 
polishing and civilizing the once barbarous nobility. More- 
over, the accession of the wealthy counts of Barcelona to the 
throne in the year 1092, introduced a taste for the elegance, 
the arts, and the sciences which Spain had learned from the 
Moors, and communicated to the people of Southern France 
a poetic elegance which shed its humanizing influcDce over 
the greater part of Europe. 

The multiplicity of lordly courts was eminently favorable 
to this progress. The supremacy of the monarch was little 
more than nominal, the higher vassals exercising absolute 
authority in their own domains, and rivalling the sovereign 
courts in the splendor of their retinue, and in the enjoyment 
of all that could gratify either sense or imagination. It must 
be added, that extreme laxity of manners prevailed, as the 
natural consequence of wealth, leisure, and court life. What- 
ever religious feeling existed, found expression in pilgrimages 
and crusades ; but it was no check to licentious morals, the 
clergy themselves not only setting the example of profligacy 
in their own lives, but encouraging it by the easy sale of abso- 
lutions. 

It was under these circumstances that the literature flou- 
rished which we are now briefly to scan, as introductory to that 
which is more strictly French. So early as the ninth century, 
we find notices of court jongleurs or minstrels ; but whatever 
was the character of those songs with which they were wont 
to amuse their patrons, it would seem to have been found un- 



PROVENCAL POETRY. 37 

suitable to that more refined mode of life wliicli was established 
in court and castle ere the end of the eleventh century. There 
was needed a style congenial to the spirit of chivalry, and 
tending to foster and develop its influence. The nobles them- 
selves undertook to supply this. Their vernacular language, 
the Provengal or Langue d^Oe,* which had been gradually 
developing since the days of Charlemagne, had now attained 
a certain degree of grammatical precision. So early as the 
tenth century, its study had been a favorite recreation among 
the higher classes of the people ; and now the art of poetry, 
called the Gai-Saber (Joyous Art), was adopted as the elegant 
occupation of those hours which were not spent in the ruder 
pastimes of the field. 

The style which was invented under these circumstances 
was highly artificial — at least as compared with the early poetry 
of other countries. The rhymes were varied in a thousand 
ways, and the verses so interlaced, that though a single rhyme 
was preserved throughout each stanza, it recurred at various 
intervals, the composer relying on the harmony of the language 
and the well-taught ear of the listener for making the expecta- 
tion of the rhyme and its postponement equally productive of 
pleasure. The number and accentuation of the syllables were 
also carefully studied, and, in this school of poetry, took the 
place of the quantity and accent which formed the basis of 
Greek and Latin versification. In the languages of antiquity, 
all syllables were distributed into two classes, the long and the 
short, the relative duration of every sound being fixed by inva- 
riable rules. Each line, or verse, as it was called, was com- 
posed of a certain number of measures called feet, having 
some correspondence to bars in music, as they marked the rise 
and fall of the tune, and always comprised the same time, 
whatever the difierence in the sound of the pronunciation. 



* Oc was the Proven9al word for Yes, See page 63. 
4 



38 TRENCH LITERATURE. 

However varied the kind of verse, according to the number 
and species of feet employed; it was indispensable so to arrange 
the words that the ear might be struck by the equality of the 
time and the uniform cadence of the sounds. In the modern 
languages of Europe, emphasis seems to have assumed the 
place of quantity, the Provengal poets having set the example. 
We stop not to inquire whether our syllables can or cannot be 
distinguished into long and short, or whether they would not 
have been thus distinguished, and their quantities strictly pre- 
served, if the ancient classics had been the earliest models of 
our versification. The fact is, that the troubadours, being 
probably unacquainted with Latin prosody, and relying only 
on the ear as their guide to harmony, organized their verses 
in a more simple manner by the alternation of accented with 
unaccented syllables; and the laws of measure and rhyme 
established by these first of modern poets have been generally 
adopted throughout Europe. We say the laws of versifica- 
tion established by the troubadours, but not with the intention 
of conveying that they were formally laid down as an art of 
poetry ; for it is very doubtful whether these rhymers ever 
explained, or indeed were capable of explaining, those inge- 
nious forms which their exquisite sensibility to musical impres- 
sions led them to adopt as the most agreeable. As to the 
matter, their compositions exhibit little play of imagination, 
little depth of emotion, and very slight traces of learning. No 
historical or mythological allusions, no comparisons drawn from 
foreign manners, no reference to the learning or the science of 
the schools, lead the reader to suspect their authors of any 
book lore whatever. In fact, some of the most ingenious of 
the troubadours were knights and princes innocent even of the 
art of reading their mother-tongue. Their themes were such 
as might be expected from a set of idle and profligate nobles — 
the all-prevailing one being love, or rather gallantry, as under- 
stood and practised in those lawless ages. And as there was 



PROVENCAL POETRY. 39 

no sucli thing tlien as the multiplication of copies by printing, 
the only mode in which an author could give circulation to his 
effusions was by having them sung from chateau to chateau. 
This he might either do in his own person^ attended by his 
jongleur, or he might commit his verses to the memory of 
some itinerant minstrel, who would chant them through the 
country. Every house was open for the entertainment of these 
professors of music and song. 

Scarcely had the Gai-Saber been established in Southern 
France, when it became the rage throughout the neighboring 
countries. Half the sovereigns of Europe adopted the Pro- 
vengal language, and enlisted themselves among the poets ; 
and these having led the way, there was soon neither baron 
nor knight but deemed himself bound to add to his fame as a 
gallant warrior the reputation of a gentle troubadour.* It was 
not then, as in after-times, that monarchs deigned to patronize 
the humble professor : the great ones of the earth were now 
themselves the professors, and the only patrons were the ladies. 
In the early days of chivalry, women had ceased to be beau- 
tiful ciphers, and had acquired complete liberty of action : the 
homage paid to them was mingled with religious sentiment, 
and amounted almost to worship. The oath taken by every 
knight was the apotheosis of his lady-love. Nor was this only 
ideal. No sooner had Provence become an independent sove- 
reignty (879 A. D.), than the nobles had repudiated the Salic 
law, by which hereditary fiefs might not pass to their daugh- 
ters ; and now they might inherit in default of male heirs, or 
even by testamentary bequest. The counts of both Provence 
and Toulouse had derived their titles through female rights, 
and woman was in the ascendant. The part allotted to them 
in the poetical world, was that of being the sovereign arbiters 



* From trohar, to find or invent; poetry being then regarded rather as 
an art than an inspiration. 



40 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

of merit — as absolute in their decrees as the barons in tbeir 
lordly edicts. Not more regular and solemn were tbe courts 
of the feudal lords than were the diets^ popularly known as 
Courts of Love,* or^ as they would be called in modern days, 
meetings of the Academy for the promotion of Poetry and 
Gallantry. These courts forbade the admission of vulgar can- 
didates for poetic fame. They polished the language and pre- 
served its purity; they dictated subjects for verse; decided 
the merits of the tensons, as the poetical dialogues were called ; 
recompensed the deserving, and punished with degradation 
those who infringed the laws. In the twelfth century, when 
they were in the zenith of their glory, grammars of the Pro- 
vencal language were written, probably at the express desire 
of the courts to which their authors belonged ; and the trouba- 
dours discussed in verse questions of the most scrupulous 
delicacy and the most disinterested gallantry. It must not be 
concealed, however, that there are shadows as well as lights in 
this picture. The songs of the troubadours abound with im- 
pious allusions, extravagant hyperboles, and trivial conceits — 
above all, with such licentiousness of expression as renders a 
large number of them unfit for perusal. The ladies, who never 
appeared in society till after marriage, were proud of the cele- 
brity which accrued to their charms from the number and des- 
peration of their lovers, and the songs of their troubadours ; 
nor were they offended if licentiousness mingled with gallantry 
in the poems composed in their praise. 

At first sight, it seems strange that the same authors yielded 
an implicit belief in abstract theology, and advocated the most 
hideous immorality ; that they addressed prayers to saints, and 
even to the Saviour himself; yet not to implore their media- 
tion with offended Deity, but to aid some amorous intrigue;':, 

* For a brief description of the Courts of Love, and of some amusing 
cases which were tried in them, see Longfellow's Poets and Poetry of 
Europe, p. 408, and Retrospective Review, vol. v., pp. 70-86. 



PROVENCAL POETRY. 41 

that married women of tlie highest rank publicly gave their 
sanction to the violation of conjugal fidelity; and men^ seem- 
ingly rational, resigned themselves to the wildest transports of 
passion for individuals whom, in some cases, they had never 
seen. This religious enthusiasm, martial bravery, and licen- 
tious love, mingled in strange grotesque, was the very life of 
the middle age; and impossible as it is to transfuse into a 
translation the harmony of Provencal verse, or to find in it, 
when stripped of this harmony, any idea worth entertaining 
as poetical, the value of these remains consists mainly in this 
— that they present us with a living, breathing picture of life 
and manners as they then prevailed. The poets were profane, 
because, from their tenderest infancy, they had been familiar- 
ized with the abuse of sacred names and sacred emblems; 
they gave free scope to their passions, because their spiritual 
guides sanctioned it by their example, and encouraged it by 
their venality. The institutions of chivalry, the fascination 
of tourneys, and the fanaticism of crusades, had turned their 
. heads, and caused them to live in an ideal world. From the 
false direction of the intellect to the abandonment of moral 
duty, the transition is easy and inevitable. It existed, doubt- 
less, before the institution of the Courts of Love ; but so far 
as we know, it had never been either openly proclaimed or 
formally justified. It was reserved for them to institute the 
charter, the decalogue, the statutes of libertinage. Assuming 
the form and exercising the power of ordinary tribunals, they 
defined and prescribed the mutual duties of the sexes, and 
taught the arts of love and song according to the most de- 
praved moral principles, mingled, however, with an afi'ected 
display of refined sentimentality. Whatever their utility in 
the advancement of the language and the cultivation of lite, 
rary taste, it must be admitted that these institutions extended 
a legal sanction to vice, and inculcated maxims of shameful 
profligacy. 
4* 



42 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Thus much we have deemed it necessary to premise con- 
cerning the moral character of the troubadour poetry, that the 
reader may not form a false conception of it from our selec- 
tionS; which are to be from among the least exceptionable. 

The earliest of the troubadour poets whose songs are still 
extant, was William Earl of Poictiers and Duke of Acqui- 
taine,* a powerful nobleman and gay libertine of the eleventh 
century. His compositions, remarkable for the harmony of 
their versification, and for the elegant mixture of their mea- 
sures and rhymes, are considered the best studies for those who 
would understand the construction of the Proven gal poetry. 
The following is his description of two favorite horses : — 

** Dos cavals ai a ma selha ben e gen ; 
Ben son et ardit per armas e valen, 

E no'ls puesc amdos tener, que I'us I'autre no cossen. 

Si'ls pogues adomesgar a mon talen, 

Ja non volgr' alhors mudar mon garnimen, 

Que miels fora cavalguatz de nul home viven. 
L'uns fon dels montaniers lo plus corren, 
Mas tan fera estranheza ha longuamen, 

Et es tan fers e salvatges que del ballar se defen. 

L'autre fon noyritz sa jos pres Colofen, 

Et auc no vis bellazor, mon escien ; 

Aquest non er ja comjatz per aur ni per argen." 

The reader may compare it with the following close, though 
not elegant translation : — 

Two well-bred coursers in my stable are, 
Fiery and fit for tournaments and war. 
I cannot manage both—they madden in the car. 

Could I subdue them, or by force or fear, 
I would not barter them for monarchs' gear. 
I should be better horsed than any cavalier. 

*Born 1071, died 1122. 



WILLIAM OF POICTIERS. 43 

The one is fleetest of the mountaineers, 
And so untamable, so fierce appears, 
The boldest cavalier may tremble when he rears. 

His mate was nourished close by Colophine — 
A nobler animal was never seen ; 
His worth may not be told in gold or brass, I ween. 

In the sequel, we find our man of pleasure suddenly re- 
nouncing love, cliivalry, tlie world and its follies, and devoting 
himself to the monastic life. He announces his resolution in 
terms too clear to be misunderstood, and too pathetic to be 
suspected of insincerity — 

Once more I am disposed to sing, 
And I will touch a mournful string, 
For never more shall I be king 
Of Poictiers, of Limousi. 

In exile 1 shall pass my life ; 
I leave my son to civil strife. 
Where fearful accidents are rife — 
Each vassal will his foeman be. 

Since I must part, though much I grieve, 
To Falcon of Anjou I leave 
My lands in trust : he will receive 
His cousin and them in custody. 



Feats of valor were my pride ; 
But now those feats I lay aside. 
In him alone my hopes abide 
Whom pilgrims pray for clemency. 

I pardon crave from my companion 
If wrong to him or his I've done ; 
And succor ask from God's own Son 
In Latin and in Romanzy. 



44 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

I leave my sports and pleasures gay, 
My lordly trappings, rich array, 
The sembelin, the vair, the gray— 
The monkish costume now for me. 

We have said that a lordly troubadour was generally attended 
by a jongleur, who sang his verses for him, or accompanied 
his voice with an instrument. There seem also to have been, 
especially after the intercourse of Christendom with the East, 
a set of musicians who travelled on their own account, and 
varied the entertainment by the recitation of tales in prose, 
and the performance of feats of jugglery and sleight of hand. 
In the following fragment, the accomplishments of such a 
functionary are catalogued : — 

All the minstrel art I know — 

I the viol well can play, 
I the pipe and syrinx blow, 

Harp and gigue my hand obey ; 
Psaltery, symphony, and rote, 

Help to charm the listening throng ; 
And Armonia lends its note 

While I warble forth my song. 

I have tales and fables plenty, 

Satires, pastorals, full of sport ; 
Songs to Vielle, I've more than twenty, 

Ditties too of every sort. 
I from lovers tokens bear, 

I can flowery chaplets weave ; 
Amorous belts can well prepare. 

And with courteous speech deceive. 

A jongleur, by repeating verses, not unfrequently learned to 
compose them ; and if he was so happy as to produce what 
pleased the celebrated beauties of the day, some duke or count 
made him a knight; and a knight who was master of the Gai- 
Saber became rightfully a troubadour. It happened, therefore, 



VENTADOUR. 45 

even in tlie palmy days of Proven gal poetry, that a troubadour 
was one raised by bis talents and tbe favor of bis master to 
tbe position wbicb be beld. Bernard de Ventadour,* for 
instance, tbe most tender, and; at tbe same time, tbe most 
profane and licentious of tbe Provencal poets, was originally 
an obscure vassal, born in tbe cbateau of tbe Count de Venta- 
dour, bis fatber being tbe man wbose business it was to beat tbe 
oven. But Bernard bad a natural talent for poetry, and a fine 
voice : be ventured to compose verses, dedicated tbem to bis 
mistress, and succeeded. After some time, tbe count com- 
mitted bis lady to a dungeon of tbe cbateau, and banisbed tbe 
troubadour, wbo quietly transferred bimself and bis verses to 
tbe court of Eleonore of Guienne, wbo, after ber separation 
from Louis VII. of France, was married to Henry of Anjou, 
Duke of Normandy, wbo acceded to tbe Englisb tbrone. Not 
being permitted to follow ber to England, be transferred bim- 
self to tbe court of Raymond, Count of Toulouse ; and after a 
life passed in tbe sunshine of royal favor, finished, like his 
betters, by secluding bimself in a cloister. In the following 
strophes of bis, tbe variations in the metres of the original 
have been strictly preserved : — 

AVhen zephyr's gently sailing 

From mansion of my love, 
Methinks I am inhaling 

The sweets of Eden's grove. 
'Tis she the illusion causes 

To whom my hopes aspire, 
Where my fond heart reposes 

Its confidence entire. 
For her I have relinquished 

All others once so dear, 
One passion hath extinguished 

A thousand kindled here. 

- Lived in the last half of the twelfth century. 



46 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

With her and her affection, 

Her eyes and face divine ; 
The sum of all perfection, 

I deemed God's self was mine! 
Yet why of this remind thee ? 

I'm not of kings' descent ; 
'Twas hard to have resigned thee, 

'Tis harder to repent. 
For once — 'twas when we parted — 

Thou saidst the good are strong ; 
They struggle broken-hearted, 

The bad resist not long. 

What meditates my fair 

'Gainst one so fond as I ? 
Why doom me to despair, 

Or yearning doom to die 
thou so debonnair. 

Vouchsafe one kind regard, 
One smile that may repair 

The wrongs that weigh so hard. 
More ills I could not bear — 

Why overwhelm thy bard ? 

Arnaud de Marveil, esteemed the most elegant of the 
Provengals, was also born in a humble rank of life, from which 
he was elevated by his talents. He was attached to the court 
of Koger II., Viscount of Beziers; and the love which he con- 
ceived for the countess is said to have been the means of 
developing his talents, and directing the destiny of his life. 
The remains of his poetry are considerable, and exhibit easy 
versification, with much tenderness of sentiment. The follow- 
ing is a short specimen of his style : — 

All I behold recalls the memory 

Of her I love. The freshness of the hour, 
The enamelled fields, the many-colored flower, 

Speaking of her, move me to melody. 



PIERRE VIDAL. 47 

Had not the poets with their courtly phrase 

Saluted many a fair of meaner worth, 
I could not now have rendered thee the praise 

So justly due, of "Fairest of the earth." 
To name thee thus had been to speak thy name, 
And waken o'er thy cheek the blush of modest shame. 

Pierre Vidal* has been called tlie Don Quixote of tlie 
troubadours. Love and vanity appear to have turned his brain, 
and persuaded him that he was the beloved of every lady, and 
the bravest of knights. He followed King Richard to the 
third Crusade, during which he was induced to marry a Greek 
lady, who gave herself out for a descendant of one of the 
families which had filled the throne of Constantinople. This 
circumstance afi'orded Vidal sufficient ground for believing 
that he was himself entitled to the imperial purple ; and he 
forthwith assumed the title of emperor, and bestowed that of 
empress upon his wife. He had a throne carried before him, 
and determined to devote the produce of his professional labors 
as a troubadour to provide the means of conquering his domi- 
nions. On his return to Provence, a new attachment led him 
into a still wilder piece of extravagance. He imagined him- 
self adored by a lady of Carcassonne, whose name was Loba , 
on which account he assumed the surname of Lop, the Pro- 
vengal for wolf; and to secure his title to the appellation, he 
clothed himself in a wolf ^s skin, and excited the shepherds to 
chase him with dogs over the mountains. It is said that he 
persevered in submitting to be the object of this sport, till he 
was carried half dead to the feet of his mistress, and that she 
was cruel enough not to be so greatly moved as he expected 
by this singular demonstration of his devoted affection. 

In perusing these snatches from the erotic poems of this 
school, the reader must be struck with the perpetual recurrence 

* Died in 1229. 



48 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

of the same ideas, the perfect monotony which prevails through- 
out, and the absence of everything like natural sentiment. 
But we should form a false estimate if we supposed this was 
their only style. True, the earliest effusions of the Provengal 
muse were chiefly of this character ; but it gradually assumed 
a wider range, and became a sort of liberty of the press in 
opposition to feudal despotism and clerical intolerance. Some 
of the troubadours were men inspired with what we will ven- 
ture to call popular feeling ; and these, animated by a musical 
taste, and favored by a sonorous language, though perhaps 
inspired with little poetic genius, composed verses in which 
they praised or reviled the neighboring lord of the manor 
according to his merit, the ingenious vivacity of their produc- 
tions procuring them a ready reception. Such men diffused 
mirth, satire, and insult together ; and, through their instru- 
mentality, mind obtained a certain degree of ascendancy over 
physical force, even in an age when the latter was so power- 
ful. We should ill understand those stirring times, if we had 
no representation of them but what is furnished by the monk- 
ish historians, who clothed their facts in the stateliness of court 
etiquette, and added the falsely quiet colors which had no 
existence but in their own cells. The popular poetry of the 
day shows the other side, and reveals to us what treatment was 
sometimes dealt by the humble minstrel to the proud baron, 
or by him, in his turn, to the German emperor, or the kings 
of Aragon, Castile, or France, whom history depicts only as 
despots at the head of their numerous devoted vassals, and in 
the pomp of their stately courts. If any one supposes that 
none but the popes assumed the right of anathematizing and 
insulting the monarchs of Europe, and that every other knee 
was bent before them, he has but to consult the troubadours 
to form a very different judgment. 

As an example of this liberty, we may refer to the cele- 



SORDELLO. 49 

brated poem of Sordello of Mantua^ in wliicli lie deplores 
tlie fate of Blacas^ his patron, wliose hearty lie says, ought to 
be divided among the pusilianimons princes of Europe, to 
stimulate them to maintain their rights, and avenge the injus- 
tice to which they so patiently submitted. 

In this sad verse I Blacas' death lament, 

With heart oppressed, and too just cause of grief; 

For I have lost in him a friend and chiefs 
And worth and valor fill his monument. 
So vast a loss may never be replaced, 

Or only thus : let's parcel out his heart, 

Let every quaking baron eat his part, 
And he will feel his lagging courage braced. 

First, let the Roman emperor partake — 

For, faith, he needs it much — yes, let him eat. 

If Milan's saucy varlets he would beat, 
Who boast they made his German boors to quake. 
And next, let Louis taste : he may regain 

Castile, whose crown he lost through want of wit ; 

But then his mother ! — he'll not taste a bit 
Lest he should cause his gentle mammy pain. 

Thy monarch, England, cowardly and dull. 
Should of the dish a copious dinner make ; 
And thus inspired, he might the lands retake 

The French kings cribbed, well knowing he was null. 

Thy prince, Castile, should eat of it for twain. 
Since he two kingdoms holds, not fit for one ; 

But if he tastes, let it by stealth be done. 
For if his mother knew, she'd beat him with a cane. 

I wish that Aragon would taste it too. 
And from the foul dishonor be relieved 
Which at Versailles and Milan he received ; 

No remedy but this, whate'er he do. 
6 



50 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Next, let Navarre of the brave heart partake, 
More valued as a count than king, I've heard. 
When man by God to such high state's preferred, 

'Tis pity that faint heart should make him quail and quake. 

Thy count, Toulouse, hath also need of it: 

Let him remember what he was and is ; 

If he no stouter heart acquire than his, 
Of all he lost he'll ne'er regain a whit. 
Avignon's count should vindicate his share ; 

A lackland count in small esteem is held ; 

For though by native courage he's impelled, 
He needs an ample slice such sad reverse to bear. 

Few of the wratliful effusions of the troubadours, usually 
called Sirventes, are so delicate in their raillery as this. They 
are, for the most part, bitter and virulent in the extreme, and 
without any regular train of thought. Their language, also, 
is so elliptical that it is often difficult to gather the meaning. 
The poet seems to have given rein to the passion of the mo- 
ment, and to have used the words that came first to hand, as 
though he scorned to select his expressions. Here is no mark 
of the study which characterizes the chansons : what is gained 
in vigor is lost in harmony. 

One of the great masters of this style was Bertrand de 
Born,* a belligerent knight, whose turbulent passions kept 
the provinces of Guienne in arms during the latter half of the 
twelfth century, and distracted the royal family of England, 
setting the sons of Henry II. against each other, and both 
against their father. Bertrand was Viscount of Hautfort, a 
small domain which he inherited conjointly with his brother 
Constantino. But not content with his own share, he endea- 

* Born between 1140 and 1160. Died in 1199. He paid poetical ho- 
mage to Eleanor Plantagenet, sister of Richard Coeur-de-Lion. — See Mrs, 
Jameson's Lives of the Poets, pp. 30-32. 



BERTRAND DE BORN. 51 

vored to despoil his brother, in doing which he was obliged 
to contend with a number of princes and nobles, who zealously 
espoused the cause of Constantine, and among whom was 
Kichard, son of the king of England. Whenever Bertrand 
was overcome, he made the best treaty he could, and imme- 
diately formed new alliances to renew the war, giving vent to 
his passions, at the same time, in a sirvente, which sustained 
his own hopes, animated his vassals, and encouraged his allies. 
The following piece, which is ascribed to him, is considered a 
fine specimen of the martial ode : — ? 

I love thy genial season, Spring, 

That renovates the leaves and flowers; 
I love to hear the sweet birds sing, 
And their wild notes re-echoing 

Through woods and copse, their native bowers ; 
It joys me on the meads to see 

Tents and pavilions glittering ; 
My heart is filled with ecstasy, 

"When I behold midst ranged battalions 

Bold cavaliers on fiery stallions. 

It joys me when the light-armed troop 

Make shepherds and their flocks decamp ; 
It joys me when behind the group 

I hear the soldiers swear and stamp ; 
And, more than all, it charms me, too, 
When I beleaguered castles view ; 

Their strong walls tumbling, 

Splintered, rumbling; 

The host in serried ranks 

Marshalled on the banks 
Of ditches palisaded round, 
With stakes thick planted in the ground. 

I could embrace the valiant peer, 

Who, nothing slack, 

Leads the attack, 
On his armed steed, unblanched with fear; 



52 TRENCH LITERATURE. 

For thus he doth inspire 

His men -with kindred fire. 
When in the camp he sets his foot, 
Each should with shouts the chief salute ; 
With heart and hand his word obey, 
And follow where he leads the way ; 
For none in glory^s record lives, 
Till many a blow he takes and gives. 

When the stour begins to thicken, 

Blades, lances, helms of various hue, 

And shivered bucklers we shall view ; 
Serfs together, striking, stricken, 
Men and steeds confusedly lying. 
Panting, gasping, dead, and dying ; 
For when the hurly-burly warms, 
No other thought high barons have 
But splitting skulls and slashing arms : 
Death, not inglorious life, befits the brave. 

Meat, drink, and sleep are not, I swear, 

To me so welcome or so sweet, 
As when from either side I hear — 

** Charge! charge! my boys!" As when I meet 
Dismounted steeds in forests neighing. 
Or scattered squadrons succour praying ; 
Or when I view the great and small, 
On sward or moat promiscuous fall ; 
Or mangled corpses that appear 
With flanks transpierced by sword and spear. 

The most interesting incident of Bertrand's career, was bis 
alliance with the young Prince Henry, whose premature death 
he mourns in two poems. One of these is especially distin- 
guished, as exhibiting the ingenuous grief of a soldier who 
blushes for the tears he sheds ^ while it presents a lively 
description of the characteristics of the friend whom he 
deplores. The following is part of it : — 



BERTRAND DE BORN. 53 

I terminate my lays ia deep despair, 
Which time nor circumstance can e'er allay ; 
My reason and my joys have passed away 

With him, the noblest king e'er mother bare. 

^ v^ * * 

Halbert and blade, 

August brocade, 

Pourpoint and pennon, 

Helm and gonfalon. 

Love and revelry, 
Who will now your rights maintain ? 
Who your dignity sustain ? 
These are gone for ever with thee. 
Yes ! with thee they're passed away, 
And wealthy recreants bless the day. 

Gracious he was, and ready to oblige ; 
** God speed you, sir !" to eveyy guest he said. 
His palace was well kept ; his serfs well paid. 
Were all polite, but never wronged a liege. 

The viol and song 

Did the feast prolong, 

And round the board, 

With dainties stored, 

A noble company. 
The best of all the world was there. 
Where are they vanished ? Tell me where ? 
In this vile age of penury, 
Where scarce one generous soul we meet, 
Who can with Henry's fame compete ? 

* i-r iiJ * 

It is said, tliat being afterwards defeated by the forces of 
tlie English king, and brought as a prisoner before him, he 
was asked : ^^ Is this you who boasted of having so much 
spirit?'^ upon which Bertrand replied: ^^I could do so once, 
but in losing your son, I have lost all that I had both of spirit 
and dexterity.^' The king burst into tears, and restored to 
the fallen warrior his liberty and his chateau. 



54 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Nor was tMs turbulent soul less susceptible of love tLan of 
fnendsbip. One of the objects of Ms attacbment was Maenz 
de MontagnaC; tbe wife of Talleyrand de Perigord^ to wbom be 
addressed a song, wbicb appears to possess considerable ori- 
ginality. It exhibits the knigbt of those days busied in war 
and in the chase, yet esteeming everything light in compari- 
son of his love — 

I cannot hide from thee how much I fear 

The whispers breathed by flatterers in thine ear 

Against my faith. But turn not, oh, I pray ! 
That heart so true, so faithful, so sincere, 
So humble and so frank, to me so dear, 

Oh, lady ! turn it not from me away. 

So may I lose my hawk, ere he can spring. 
Borne from my hand by some bold falcon's wing, 

Mangled and torn before my very eye, 
If every word thou utterest does not bring 
More joy to me than Fortune's favoring. 

Or all the bliss another's love might buy. 

So, with my shield on neck, 'mid storm and rain, 
With vizor blinding me, and shortened rein, 

And stirrups far too long, so may I ride, 
So may my trotting charger give me pain, 
So may the hostler treat me with disdain. 

As they who tell those tales have grossly lied. 

When I approach the gaming-board to play, 
May I not turn a penny all the day ; 

Or may the board be shut, the dice untrue. 
If the truth dwell not in me when I say, 
No other fair e'er wiled my heart away 

From her I've long desired and loved — from you ! 

Or, prisoner to some noble, may I fill. 
Together with three more my dungeon chill. 
Unto each other odious company; 



BERTRAND DE BORN. 55 

Let master, servants, porters, try their skill, 
And use me for their target if they will, 
If ever I have loved aught else but thee. 

So may another knight make love to you, 
And so may I be puzzled what to do ; 
So may I be becalmed 'mid oceans wide ; 

May the king's porter beat me black and blue, 
And may I fly ere I the battle view. 

As they that slander me have grossly lied ! 

Bertrand also ended his days in a monastery ; but if we are 
to believe Dante^ this epilogue of his turbulent life did not 
suflQce to atone for the crime he had committed in embroiling 
the royal family of England. The Italian poet met him in 
the infernal regions more than a hundred years after his 
stormy career on earth was ended; and heard him sing — 

*' Now, behold 
This grievous torment, thou who, breathing, goest 
To spy the dead : behold, if any else 
Be terrible as this. And that on earth 
Thou may'st bear tidings of me, know that I 
Am Bertrand, he of Born, who gave King John 
The counsel mischievous. Father and son 
I set at mutual war. For Absalom 
And David, more did not Ahitophel, 
Spurring them on maliciously to strife. 
For parting those so closely knit, my brain 
Parted, alas ! I carry from its source 
That in this trunk inhabits. Thus the law 
Of retribution fiercely works in me." 

Inferno^ Canto xxviii. 

That bold and free character of the Provengal muse — that 
prerogative of reproof and satire which it exercised against 
the temporal powers of the middle age, is equally conspicuous 
in its opposition to a stronger than all — the theological and 
monastic influence. It is singular to observe the temerity with 
which, in those times which we figure to ourselves as so submis- 



56 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

sive, so respectful; and so superstitious, not only abuses, but 
even boly tMngs are turned to ridicule ; and this not merely 
in pleasantry, but with downright malice. In the earliest 
rudiments of the Romance languages may be discovered the 
first indications of a feeling of religious independence ; and we 
could hail it with delight, were it not so intimately associated 
with profanity. The sirventes are filled with invectives against 
the clergy and the court of Rome ; and if but a tenth part of 
their reproaches are well founded, this era must have been the 
culmination of moral depravity. Very few of these pieces are 
fit for perusal. 

The following is by William Figueiras : — 

Our pastors, well I know, 
Like wolves, our spoils divide. 

Semblance of peace they show, 
Yet rob on every side. 
With fawning smiles 
They, night and day, 
Their simple flock entice ; 
But when inveigled in their wiles, 
They throw the mask away, 
And hurl them down the precipice. 
^ «- ^e- 

Shouldst thou the truth relate, 
They will impugn thy zeal ; 

Cursed and excommunicate. 
Their vengeance thou wilt feel. 
If thou hast nought to give, 
Hope not with them to live 

In love or amity. 

Holy Maria ! I appeal to thee ; 
Blessed Virgin, grant, I pray, 
That I may see the day 
May terminate their wickedness. 
And men and women fear them less. 

It would appear, however, that some of the poets knew how 



VAQUEIRAS. 57 

to draw a line of distinction between religion itself and its nn- 
wortliy ministers ; and had religions feeling, bnt of a character 
too like that which belonged to their ancient heathenism. A 
few of the numerous orisons which remain are veritable curi- 
osities, in which it is not unusual to find invocations to the 
Virgin and the saints, backed by formidable threatenings^ or 
urged with protestations of devoted love, no less ardent and 
free than those which the authors addressed to their mistresses ; 
a melange of phrases familiar and respectful, a confession of 
private vices at once shocking and ridiculous, betraying rather 
the callousness of men accustomed to profligacy, than the con- 
trition of the genuine penitent. 

The Crusades formed another favorite theme of Provencal 
poetry. While the zeal of the faithful was aroused by the 
Christian pulpit, while kings and chiefs were summoned by 
letters from Rome, the voice of the troubadours — sometimes in 
irony and malice, sometimes in a style of devotion approaching 
the hymnology of the Hebrews — lent its inspiration to the 
adventure ; and it may be doubted whether the following, by 
Raimbaud de Vaqueiras, was not worth all the bulls of 
Urban II., and all the homilies of Peter the Hermit : — 

He who created heaven, earth, sea, and air, 

Heat, cold, wind, rain — who bade the thunder roll, 

Wills that we cross the main 'neath the control 

Of this brave chieftain, as the magi were 

Star-led to Bethlehem. For the Paynim sword 

Lays waste the mount and plain ; yet God is mute. 

We, we the sacred birthplace must dispute — 

We for whose sake he on the cross was gored. 

He who remains behind and spurns our suit, 

Wills vile existence at his soul's expense. 

Our sins condemn us — dread the consequence : 

Who bathes in Jordan's flood is purged of his offence. 



58 FRENCH XITERATURE. 

Heartless is he who without deep dismay 
Can brook the Moslem's wrongs, the Moslem's pride, 
Who keeps the land where Jesus lived and died. 
St. Nicholas be our guide ! Do thou, Champagne, 
Unfurl thy banners. Let the marquis cry, 
Montferrat ! let the Flemish count reply, 
Flanders ! and strike their bucklers till they strain. 
Shivered at every blow be lance and sword. 
Thus shall the vaunting Moslems be o'erthrown, 
Jerusalem and the cross be yet our own — 
The cross so vilely lost ! Let Spain's brave lord. 
Now firmly seated on his ancient throne, 
Assault, expel the Moors ! Thou, Boniface, 
Attack the sultan in Byzantium's place. 
'Hark! from the heaven of heavens the Saviour's voice! 
*' Arm, arm, my sons! my tomb and cross redeem !" 
He who would commune in the skies with Him 
Fears not to die, assured he will rejoice 
In Paradise. Let each his means employ 
To pass the seas — the Moslem dogs destroy. 

Some of tlie troubadours themselves assumed the cross ; 
others were detained in Europe by the bonds of love ; and 
the conflict between passion and religious enthusiasm lent its 
interest to the poems which they composed to animate their 
brethren. 

But it is impossible to speak of the Holy War in connexion 
with troubadour poetry^ without remembering Eichard I., the 
darling of all the Crusaders, and the story told of him, that 
when he was detained a prisoner in Germany, Blondel, his 
minstrel, discovered the place of his captivity by singing 
beneath the fortress one stanza of a tenson which he and 
Richard had composed in common, and to which Richard now 
at once answered by commencing the second. If this poem 
had been preserved, the story would probably not have been 
considered apocryphal, as it is by many historians. That 



RICHARD I. 59 

Richard was a troubadour^ however, is certain, as there re- 
main some songs of his, one of which was written in prison : — 

No wretched captive of his prison speaks, 

Unless with pain and bitterness of soul ; 
Yet consolation from the Muse he seeks, 

Whose voice alone misfortune can control. 
Where now is each ally, each baron, friend, 

Whose face I ne'er beheld without a smile ? 
Will none, his sovereign to redeem, expend 

The smallest portion of his treasures vile ? 

Though none may blush that, near two tedious years. 

Without relief, my bondage has endured — 
Yet know, my English, Norman, Gascon peers, 

Not one of you should thus remain immured : 
The meanest subject of my wide domains, 

Had I been free, a ransom should have found; 
I mean not to reproach you with my chains. 

Yet still I wear them on a foreign ground ! 

Too true it is — so selfish human race ! 

*' Nor dead nor captive, friend or kindred find;" 
Since here I pine in bondage and disgrace, 

For lack of gold my fetters to unbind : 
Much for myself I feel, yet, ah ! still more 

That no compassion from my subjects flows ; 
What can from infamy their names restore. 

If, while a prisoner, death my eyes should close ? 

But small is my surprise, though great my grief, 

To find, in spite of all his former vows. 
My lands are ravaged by the Gallic chief, 

While none my cause has courage to espouse. 
Though lofty towers obscure the cheerful day, 

Yet through the dungeon's melancholy gloom 
Kind Hope, in gentle whispers, seems to say : 

*' Perpetual thraldom is not yet thy doom." 



60 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Ye dear companions of my happy days, 

Of Chail and Pensavin, aloud declare 
Throughout the earth, in everlasting lays, 

My foes against me wage inglorious war. 
tell them too, that ne'er, among my crimes, 

Did breach of faith, deceit, or fraud appear ; 
That infamy will brand to latest times 

The insults I receive while captive here. 

Know, all ye men of Anjou and Touraine, 

And every bachelor knight, robust and brave, 
That duty, now, and love, alike are vain. 

From bonds your sovereign and your friend to save ; 
Remote from consolation, here I lie, 

The wretched captive of a powerful foe, 
Who all your zeal and ardor can defy. 

Nor leaves you aught but pity to bestow. 

This song is preserved in the dialect of the trouveres, of which 
we are presently to speak, as well as in that of the troubadours; 
and it is not known in which it was originally composed. 

The language of Provence having been, as we have said, 
adopted in several of the courts of Europe, was considerably 
enriched by locutions from other dialects ; and before the end 
of the twelfth century, was the most eclectic and polished in 
Europe. From this time, however, its poetry began to decline. 
The troubadours had few resources within themselves, and 
none of a foreign character; and their profession having 
become, to a certain extent, a mercenary and vulgar one — a 
means of subsistence instead of an elegant pastime — fell into 
disesteem. It is difficult to say what would have been the 
fate of the language under these circumstances, whether it 
would have frittered itself away, or have lent inspiration to 
some one whose genius would have endowed it with immor- 
tality, had not public events occurred which hastened its 
downfall, and reduced it to the condition of a mere provincial 
dialect. 



THE ALBIGENSES. 61 

Among the numerous sects wliich sprang up in Christendom 
during the first ages, there was one which, though bearing 
difi'erent nam^s at different times, bore the same general 
features, and more or less resembled what is now known as 
Protestantism, but, in the sixth century, ^^Paulicienne;^^ and 
in the twelfth and thirteenth, the " Faith of the Albigenses,'' 
as it prevailed most widely in the district of Albi. It easily 
came to be identified with the Proven§al language, as this was 
the chosen vehicle of its religious services. After the oaths 
of 842 A. D., of which we are presently to speak, one of the 
most ancient specimens of romance language is a simple and 
pious paraphrase of Gospel maxims, entitled The Noble Lesson 
of the Vaudois. It contains no heretical doctrine, but betrays 
a spirit of free inquiry, and sense of individual responsibility. 

This sect was tolerated, and even protected, by the Count 
of Toulouse ; it augmented its members ; it devoted itself to 
commerce and the arts, and added much to the wealth and 
prosperity which had long distinguished the south of France 
from the military rudeness of the north. The sanctuaries of 
the Albigenses were frequented, their hymns in the vulgar 
tongue resounded through the country, and their faith long 
lived peaceably side by side with the Catholic in the same 
cities and villages. But Innocent III. having ascended the 
papal throne and cast his eyes abroad, espied this little people 
in a corner of southern France, attending lay-preachers, pray- 
ing in the vulgar tongue, and appearing thus to renounce the 
supremacy of the old language, and of religious and political 
Rome. He sent legates to Provence, who preached, discussed, 
threatened, and met in freedom of thought a resistance of mere 
authority which Rome was* not accustomed to brook. Bitter 
controversy was now substituted for the amiable frivolity of 
tensons, and theological disputes superseded those on points 
of gallantry. At the palace of Raymond of Toulouse, the 
legates found troubadours, musicians, jongleurs, and hymn- 
6 



62 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

singing heretics, mingled together under his generous patron- 
age. They demanded of him the punishment of his noncon- 
forming subjects ; and while he hesitated, the assassination of 
a legate at an inn on the banks of the Rhone furnished 
occasion for the preaching of a new crusade. Kaymond him- 
self was forced to take part in it; the long struggle between 
the poetry of the troubadours and the preaching of the monks 
now came to a crisis ; the bitter satires which the disorderly 
lives of the clergy had called forth became more bitter still ; 
and the songs of the troubadours wounded the pride and power 
of Rome more deeply than ever, while they stimulated the 
Albigenses to a valiant resistance or a glorious death. But 
poetry was no match for the sword and lance when matters 
came to an extremity; and the result of the conflict was the 
annexation of Toulouse to the crown of France.* 

In this chaos of events, what became of the songs and the 
sighings of love ? It was impossible for the enamored knight 
any longer to travel from chateau to chateau singing his ela- 
borate verses, and dedicating them to the noble ladies whom 
they celebrated. With the circumstances of the times, the 
imagination of the people had seemed to undergo a change; 
it submerged in those waves of blood; and even when the 
dreadful strife was over, Provencal poetry never again dis- 
played its graceful vivacity. 

The language of Provence was destined to share the same 
fate with its poetry. It became identified in the minds of the 
orthodox with heresy and rebellion. About the middle of the 
thirteenth century, Charles of Anjou, having acquired the 
kingdom of Naples, drew thither in his train the principal 
families of the Proven gal nobility, and thus drained the king- 
dom of those who had formerly maintained its chivalrous 
manners. The Courts of Love were consequently done away, 

'* See Sisinondi's Literature of Southern Europe, chap. vi. 



THE LANGUE d'oIL. 63 

and the tourneys became few and unattractive. A still more 
deadly blow to the Provencal was the removal of the court of 
Rome to Avignon at the beginning of the fourteenth century ; 
for though the successive popes who resided there for seventy 
years^ were all natives of Southern France, yet their retinues 
were composed of Italians, and the Tuscan superseded the 
Provencal in the circles of fashion. 



II.— THE TROUVERES.* 

RISE OF THE LANGUE D'OIL OR ROMANCE WALLON — IT MERGES INTO NORMAN- 
FRENCH— CHIVALROUS ROMANCES— LAYS— ALLEGORICAL POEMS— FABLIAUX 
— HISTORICAL ROMANCES — LYRIC POETRY — CONCLUDING OBSERVATIONS — 
THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS. 

While the Provencal, after a brilliant career of three cen- 
turies, was relapsing into the position of a mere dialect, the 
north of France was maturing a new language, and giving 
birth to literature of a different character. 

The name of Waelchs or Walloons, which was given by the 
Germans to the inhabitants of this region, was essentially the 
same as that of Galli (Gauls), which they had received from 
the Latins, and of Kelti (or Celts), which they themselves 
acknowledged. Their language was called after them the 
llomance Wallon — that is, the vulgar tongue of the Walloons — 
and we hav^e notices of its existence so early as the eighth 
century; but the most ancient specimen of it is the oath of 
Louis-le-Germanique,'{" and that of the subjects of Charles the 
Bald, in the year 842 A. D. 

* Trouvere is simply a translation of the Provencal troubadour, 
f " Pro Deo amor, et pro christian poblo, et nostro comun salvamento 
(salvament) dist di en avant, in quant Deus savir et podir me dunat, si 



64 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

The language of these celebrated oaths is almost as much 
like the Provencal as the Walloon of later times, leading to the 
conclusion that at this period the vulgar tongue was pretty 
nearly the same throughout the whole of France. But from 
the time that the formation of the kingdom of Aries divided the 
country into two independent and rival states, their languages 
became more and more dissimilar. When the Provengal re- 
ceived the designation of the Langue d^ Oc, the Walloon was 
called the Langue cV Oil or d' Out, just as the Italian was the 
Langue de Si, and the German the Langue de Ja.^ 

The invasion of the Northmen, or Normans, in the tenth 
century, supplied the last, and perhaps the best element of 
this dialect. The victors adopted the language of the van- 
quished, but modified it by the addition of Teutonic locutions, 
and stamped on it the impress of their own genius. It thus 
became the Norman-Erench, which formed the basis of the 
language whose literature we are briefly to survey. 

A century and a half after Northern France had submitted 
to Kollo, one of his descendants effected the conquest of Eng- 
land, and imposed this language on our forefathers, command- 
ing that it should be taught before Latin in all the conventual 
schools, and should be the organ of civil administration 
throughout the country. In England, therefore, the popular 
French acquired by the sword of William a position which it 
did not enjoy at Paris : in the French capital, it was the dia- 

salvarejo cist meon frade Karlo, et in adjudha, et in cadhuna cosa si cum 
om per droit son fradre (fradra) salvar dist (legendum dust) in o quid il mi 
altre si fazet (qui id un altre si fazet), et ab Ludher nul plaid nunquam 
prindrai, qui meon vol cist meon fradre Karlo in damno sit." 

The oath of the French people runs thus : — " Si Loduuigs sagrament, 
que son fradre Karlo jurat, consertat; et Karlus, meos sendra, de suo part 
non lo stanit; si io returnar non I'int pois, ne io, ne ceuls cui eo returnar 
int pois, in nulla ajudha contra Lodhuwig nun li iver." 

* Oc, Oil or Oui, Si, and Ya, arc the Provencal, Walloon, Italian, and 
German, respectively for yes. 



THE LANGUE D OIL. 65 

lect of tlie vulgar ; while in the English, it was what Latin 
had long been on the Continent — the language of the court, 
of the government, and of course, therefore, of the educated 
classes generally. It is thus accounted for that England was 
the cradle of French literature. The first complete work in 
the French language, posterior only to the oaths above referred 
to, was the code of laws which William the Conqueror im- 
posed on his English subjects in the latter half of the eleventh 
century.* 

As soon as poetry appeared in this dress, it displayed a novel 
and interesting character, widely different from the Provencal. 
It was not now an idle baron sighing for his lady-love, or an 
oppressed vassal venting his indignation at the tyranny of his 
master, but it was a nation of hardy warriors celebrating the 
prowess of their ancestors, with all the exaggeration that their 
fancy could supply. Here first we meet with those legends 
and romances of mediaeval chivalry which have furnished the 
elements of the marvellous to the poets and romancers of suc- 
ceeding ages. 

The earliest, probably, of these, giving its own date in the 

* The following extract is from a manuscript of about the same date : — 
*'Un horn estoit en la terre Us ki out nom Job. Parce est dit u li sainz 
horn demoroit ke li merites de sa vertut soit expresseiz. Quar ki ne sachet 
que Us est terre de paiens, et la paienie fut en tant plus enloie {inligaUis) 
de visces, ke de n'eout la conissance de son faiteor {criateur). Dunkes 
diet lorn u il demorat par ke ses loi {louange) creisset; cant il fut bon entre 
les malvais." 

The following is from St. Bernard, who died in 1153 : — Nos faisons vi, 
chier freire, Tencommencement de Tavent, cui nous est asseiz renomeiz et 
connis al munde, si come sunt li nom des altres solemnpniteiz. Mais li 
raison del nom nen est mies par aventure si conue. Car li chaitif fil d'Adam 
nen ont cure de veriteit ne de celes chores ka lor saluteit appartienent, anz 
quierent icil les choses defaillans et trespessaules {trespessantes ?). A quel 
gent ferons nos semblans les homes de ceste generation, ou a quel gent 
ewerons nous ceos cui nos veons estre si ahers et si enracineiz ens terriens 
solas et ens corporiens, kil de partir ne s'en puyent." 



66 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

text as tlie year 1155 A. d., is the Booh of the Britons, or the 
Romance of Brutus, a fabulous history of the early kings of 
England, beginning with Brutus, the grandson of ^neas. 
This Brutus, after making many a long journey, and lighting; 
on many an enchanted isle and gorgeous fairy palace, at length 
discovers England, establishes his family in it, and reigns glo- 
riously. Here he finds King Arthur, the chivalric institution 
of the Round Table, and the enchanter Merlin, one of the 
most popular personages of the middle ages. Out of this 
legend arose a series of myths, includin g some of the boldest 
creations of the human fancy. The court of King Arthur was 
peopled with valiant knights, whose names became '' familiar 
as househ'old words^' in the thirteenth and fourteenth centu- 
ries. For instance, the Romance of Merlinj who was said to 
be the son of the devil by a Breton lady, describes the wars 
of Uther and Pendragon against the Saxon invaders of Eng- 
land, the birth and early life of Arthur, the miracles by which 
the prophet of chivalry consecrated the institution of the Round 
Table, and his predictions, which have served as well as the 
gravest chronicles for materials to the romance writers. The 
Romance of Saint Graal{^ by Christian de Troyes, mingles 
the records of sacred history with legends of British chi- 
valry. It tells how the saint-graal, or holy cup, was carried 
to England, and came into the possession of Lancelot of the 
Lake, Galaar his son, Percival of Wales, and Boort, knights 
of the Round Table, of each of whom the history is given ; 
and so of the rest, in which the adventures of the different 
heroes of this illustrious court are recounted with a curious 
mixture of simplicity and extravagance, gallantry and super- 
stition. 

Another family of romances are those which relate to the 



* Poets have drawn nothing more beautiful from this legend than The 
Vision of Sir Launfal, by James Russell Lowell, and Sir Galahad by 
Tennyson. 



ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 67 

wonderful exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve paladins. 
Many of these, also, have been rendered familiar to the mo- 
dern reader by the works of later authors, especially Ariosto 
in the Orlando Furioso.'^ We shall, therefore, here intro- 
duce a very ancient one which is little known, having been 
first published within the last twenty years from a manuscript 
in the British Museum. It is entitled The Journey of Cliarle- 
magne to Jerusalem and, Constantinople. Every one knows 
that this monarch was never at either place ; but the imagina- 
tion of the twelfth century having endowed him with all the 
characteristics of greatness, and knowing none more signal 
than those connected with Eastern travel, made no difficulty 
as to the fact that these adventures were not known in the age 
of Charlemagne. The journey was occasioned, says the story, 
by a dispute between the monarch and his queen^ which thus 
arose : — 

Charles to Saint Denis' minster hastened now 
To be re-crowned ; first on his ample brow 
He signed the cross, then on his thigh he bound 
His golden-hilted sword ; assembled round 
Dukes, lords, knights, barons in, attendance stood. 
The monarch with delight his champions viewed, 
Then turned elated to his youthful queen, 
Resplendent with her crown and regal sheen. 
He pressed her snow-white hand, and courteously 
Conducting her beneath an olive-tree, 
Thus gaily questioned her: ^'Now, lady, say. 
Hast thou e'er seen beneath the solar ray 
A monarch whom the crown so well became. 
Or sword so just an emblem of his fame ? 
With this, I warrant, many a town I'll take!" 
The dame was reckless, and thus reckless spake: 
"In sooth, my liege, thou dost assume too much. 
Certes I have beheld, and often, such ; 



* See Mrs. Marsh's ^'Sung of Kolarid, as chanted before the Battle of 
Hastings by Taillefor." 



68 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

A king who when at court his crown he wears, 

More graceful and more dignified appears." 

Charlemagne, enraged, the simple queen surveyed ; 

The peers stood mute, the multitude dismayed. 

** Ha ! say'st thou ? And this monarch, where bides he ? 

Reveal his name — reveal it instantly ! 

We'll see whose merit bears the palm away, 

Or his or mine ; let mutual umpires say. 

Hie to his palace, with thy friends combine ; 

My knights and faithful Franks to them I'll join : 

To their decision I will freely bow. 

But if thou liest, 'twill cost thee dear, I trow ; 

I'll doff thy head with this well-tempered blade !" 

The queen, now regretting her ill-timed banter, would fain 
have dropped the argument. She pretended she had forgot 
the name and country of the hero; but the king would take 
no denial. At length she mentioned Hugo, King of Byzan- 
tium ; whereupon Charles summoned his peers, and told them 
that he required their attendance, with that of their vassals, 
in the performance of a long-resolved pilgrimage to the Holy 
Land ; and that, after fulfilling this duty, he intended to seek 
out a king of whose wealth and prowess wonderful things had 
been told him. 

The adventurers travelled by land through Burgundy, Ba- 
varia, Hungary, Turkey, and Persia. Reaching Jerusalem at 
length, they visited the minster, where the officials took them 
for celestial visitants, till Charles explained : — 

*' Sire, I am Charles ycleped, in Gallia bred, 
My knights and I twelve kings have vanquished ; 
The thirteenth now I seek, but known by fame. 
Hither, by God inspired, I lately came, 
The cross and holy sepulchre t'adore." 

The king now asked and obtained a number of sacred relics, 
and in due time the party returned homewards by Constanti- 
nople. 



ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 69 

Byzantium's far-famed city they behold, 
Its mosques and pinnacles bedecked with gold. 
On the right hand, upon a mountain's side. 
Groves of green laurels and of pines they spied ; 
There the arbutus and the sweet rose bloomed, 
And fragrant aloes the pare air perfumed. 
Thousands of knights in silken robes they found. 
With ermine furred that trailed upon the ground. 
At chess and trictrac some of them were playing, 
Others with falcons and tame goshawks straying. 

Ctarles, advancing on his mule^ questioned Roland as to 
wtether he had yet seen the king ; and then^ turning to a man 
who stood near him^ he inquired where Hugo lived. Being 
directed to go forward to a tent which was pointed out, he 
spurred his beast, and presently, to his great surprise, disco- 
vered the monarch engaged in ploughing. The instrument 
was worthy of a king. 

The shares, the coulters, wheels, were all of gold. 

With skill unerring he the ploughshare ruled. 

Two powerful mules a rich pavilion bore, 

Where, on a cushion, sat the emperor ; 

Of eider-down the pillow was composed. 

Mantled with scarlet where his head reposed ; 

A silver footstool on the carpet placed. 

With flowers and rich enamel was incased. 

A golden verge the valiant Hugo held, 

And so unerringly the share impelled. 

Each furrow was as straight as joiner's rule. 

Charlemagne, astonished, viewed him from his mule ; 

Still Hugo urged the plough, for fain was he 

To finish his day's work, and speedil 

Charles doffs his cap, and greets him heartily. 

Hugh, lost in wonder, marks his warlike mien, 

His sinewy arms, and body lank and lean. 

** God save thee, sir ! what favor dost thou claim ?" 

*' From France I come, and Charlemagne is my name. 



70 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

My nephew Roland. From the Holy Land 
Returning home with my victorious band, 
Thee and thy chivalry I fain would know." 
**In sooth," cries Hugo, **'tis seven years ago 
Reports have reached me of a Frankish host 
And knights well mounted, who approached our coast. 
If such thy pleasure, here a twelvemonth bide, 
Gold in abundance shall thy wants provide. 
Now I'll unyoke my mules, that I may prove 
How much I long to cultivate thy love." 
* -x- ^ ^j 

The palace and its splendor Charles surveyed ; 
Chairs, tables, sofas — all of gold were made ; 
Its walls, with azure silk and pictures graced. 
Where serpents, beasts of prey, and birds were traced. 
A well-proportioned dome surmounted all. 
And shed soft radiance o'er the gorgeous hall. 
One hundred columns, glorious to behold, 
Girt the saloon ; two statues of pure gold, 
Or polished brass, in front of each were seen. 
Children they seemed in body and in mien ; 
An ivory horn protruded from each mouth, 
Which, when the breeze, or from the north or south, 
Entered the palace, like a wheel turned round, 
When down a hill it hurries to the ground. 
then the horns a mighty voice would yield, 
Like drums or thunder, or loud chimes when pealed. 
Each statue with a smile surveyed the other, 
Alike in form, as brother to a brother. 

Just then a gentle breeze began to blow 
Right from the port, and at that moment, lo ! 
The horns revolved like axle of a mill, 
And breathed sweet airs, the statues smiling still. 
Some in high octaves, others soft and clear, 
Thrilled in melodious accents on the ear. 
In paradise the listeners seemed to be. 
Where angels sing in joyous company. 
Anon the gale increased ; it stormed, it hailed ; 
The winds in vain the palace walls assailed. 



ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 71 

Its lattices, of foreign crystal pure, 
With curtains well protected stood secure ; 
"Within 'twas tranquil as the month of May 
When summer suns their genial beams display. 

After a plentiful supper, in which 

Nought was refused the Franks might please their taste: 
Wild boars and yen'son on the board were placed ; 
Gees^, herons, peacocks, seasoned well with spice, 
Provoked their appetites, not overnice ; 
Claret in capious jugs their thirst allayed, 
And minstrels sung or on the rota played — 

the guests prepared for rest. 

But the wilj Hugo had taken the precaution of hiding in 
the chamber a spy, who overheard when the guests, heated 
with wine, conversed {gahbed) freely among themselves, and 
boasted their superior strength, while they poured contempt 
on their wealthy entertainers. Next day, Hugo challenged 
them to verify their bravadoes, vowing that they should die 
unless each boaster performed the feat which he had vaunted. 
They venture all; and partly by miraculous aid, partly by 
cunning and opportune accidents, each contrives to perform, 
or to appear to have performed, his feat : whereupon the 
Byzantine monarch acknowledges Charles for his superior, 
and does him homage. Many of the details in this, as in 
most other tales of chivalry, are quite unfit for perusal. 

It would not comport with the limits of the present work to 
enter on an inquiry into the origin of these wild romances, 
but it is easy to see how they may have arisen. The popular 
mind was struck, in the first instance, with the actual view of 
great men and great actions, as those of Charlemagne, and 
Alexander the Great, another favorite hero of chivalrous 
poetry. The history of these being traditionally handed down 
from one generation of story-tellers to another, during ages in 



72 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

which there were no books^ became exaggerated as the dis- 
tance in point of time increased, and these fabrications came 
to occupy the place of historic record. It is worth remarking, 
that though an attempt was made to render the prowess of 
Rollo and his followers the subject of romantic narrative in 
the poem called the Romance of the Roux, yet it gave birth 
to no following imitations or amplifications. The events, pro- 
bably, were too near and too familiar to be accepted as matter 
for poetical embellishment. But Charlemagne was a fine sub- 
ject: his long reign; his prodigious activity; his splendid 
conquests ; his wars with the Saracens ; his influence in Ger- 
many, Italy, and Spain ; and his re-establishment of a western 
empire — naturally rendered him an object of wonder and admi- 
ration to succeeding generations, who connected his name with 
all that was brilliant in achievement, even after the precise 
facts were forgotten. Anachronisms might be expected under 
the circumstances, and errors in geography occurred almost as 
matters of course. The feats of this hero were probably con- 
founded with the earlier ones of Charles Martel, and supple- 
mented, perhaps, with some Eastern lore and a few classic 
reminiscences of the west. Then the institutions of chivalry, 
when they appeared, formed a beautiful ideal amidst the hard- 
ness of feudal despotism; and the Crusades aff'orded such 
splendid examples of knightly devotion, that even as Alex- 
ander the Great was dubbed a knight, so the redoubtable 
Charlemagne made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. The super- 
natural was easily added under these circumstances. In the 
infancy of nations, as of individuals, the love of the marvellous 
seems to be inherent, and Divine or Satanic interference 
affords the easiest and most agreeable explanation of every 
difiiculty. This disposition had been fostered in the dark 
ages by the monkish legends of miracles and visions, and it 
would seem as though the charm of fiction and the habit of 
believing it had incapacitated the popular mind for relishing 



ROMANCES OF CHIVALRY. 73 

sober and unadorned truth. Such, indeed, was the power 
and prevalence of these myths for ages afterwards, that Mil- 
ton's first idea was to devote an epic to Arthur,* as Ariosto 
had done to Charlemagne, till a happier thought induced him 
to relinquish the enchanter Merlin for the Evil One, and the 
conquest of Britain for Paradise Lost. 

We are not to suppose that these fictions were the inven- 
tions of some master-minds of singular ingenuity. The poets 
seem only to have versified what every one believed, and 
hence, perhaps, it is that their biographies are obscure as 
compared with those of the troubadours. For it is to be ob- 
served, that though we now use the word romance as synony- 
mous with a fictitious composition, yet originally it only meant 
a work in the Romance or modern dialect, as distinguished 
from the scholastic Latin ; and there is little doubt that the 
knights who listened to the songs of the minstrel, '' held each 
strange tale devoutly true.^' 

And doubtless there is much verity amidst this mass of 
fiction. The mind of man invents very little incident in an 
absolute sense, even when it frames the most chimerical 
fables; and fiction is but composed of fragments of truth 
fancifully put together. There is no doubt that chivalry was 
a real institution, and that the moral features, the details of 
costume, the social usages, even the adventures so far as they 
are human and natural, are a faithful and exact expression of 
the age. This literature would not be worthy to occupy so 
much attention, did it not present the only picture of life 
in those days that it is now possible for us to attain. We 
could form no adequate conception of the hardness of feudalism 
but in viewing this cortege of warriors which supported it ; 
these restless and ungovernable passions which were its very 



* See an allusion to this in. his Epitaphium Damonis, 
7 



74 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

life; and this sense of honor, this gallantry and religious 
enthusiasm, which were its highest ornament. 

In the north of France, as in the south, princes and nobles 
lent their patronage to the minstrels or jongleurs, who, espe- 
cially after the intercourse with the East, united the functions 
of musician and story-teller, mountebank and conjuror. Ac- 
cording to a custom which may be traced to the highest anti- 
quity, these professors of the art of pleasing were invited to 
table even in the kingly palace, and largely rewarded for the 
amusement they afforded. But whatever the charm which an 
extended romance was calculated to lend to the private cham- 
ber, the festive meeting required still lighter compositions, 
whose sallies of wit were rendered more piquant by brevity 
of style. Hence the fabliaux — which seem to have owed 
their origin to the patronage of the great — and the laysy 
which occupy an intermediate position between these and the 
romances. 

Marie of France, who flourished in the middle of the 
thirteenth century, bears the palm in this species of composi- 
tion. She was a classical scholar, and had spent some time 
in Britain, where she had conversed in their own language 
with the Welsh bards, to whom she confesses herself indebted 
for the matter of her lays. They are embodied in an easy, 
graceful, conversational style, without the tedious episodes 
and digressions which occur in the romances.* The following 
will give some idea of her Lay of Lanval: — 

I will another lay recite, 

Which oft I've heard in bower and hall; 
The hero is a wealthy knight. 

In Britanny ycleped Lanval. 

•* See in Costello's Early French Poetry, or in Longfellow's Poets and 
Poetry of Europe, the renowned Lny of Bisclaveret, 



LAY OF LANVAL. ro 

King Arthur was at Cardiff suppressing an irruption of the 
Picts and Scots ; after whicli he rewarded the other knights 
of the Round Table with lands and honors, but Lanval re- 
mained unguerdoned ; and as his private property was limited, 
while his chivalrous expenses were considerable, he found him- 
self reduced to straits. He scorned to complain, however, 
and resolved to seek his fortune in other lands. Mounting 
his steed, and leaving the town, he reached a verdant meadow, 
watered by a streamlet clear as crystal : — 

Here he ungirt his panting steed, 

And left to pasture on the grass; 
A pillow of his cloak he made, 

For wearied nature claimed repose, 
But sad reflections sleep forbade — 

Sleep flies a breast o'ercharged with woes. 
He marked the stream ; and as he gazed, 

Beheld two beauteous maids advance; 
He saw, and at their charms amazed, 

Stole many a longing, lingering glance. 
Richly attired the damsels seemed ; 

Close to their shapes each bodice laced ; 
Their vermil scarfs at distance gleamed. 

And well displayed the forms they graced. 
The elder bore a golden ewer. 

Richly enamelled, quaintly wrought — 
I merely tell the truth, be sure — 

The younger a fair napkin brought. 
Directly towards the knight they sped ; 

And he, well versed in courtesy. 
Sprang from the sward and bent his head ; 

They smiled and curtsied graciously. 
**Sir knight," they cried, "our lady fair 

Hath sent us with a message hither: 
So please you to her bower repair — 

We safely will conduct you thither.** 

Following his guides, he was led to a splendid pavilion, in 



76 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

wHch was a beautiful lady, who professed her love for him. 
After they had plighted their mutual faith, she bestowed on 
him a talisman, by virtue of which he should be able to pro- 
cure wealth at pleasure. Only one condition she imposed upon 
him — he was never to reveal the secret of their attachment ; 
if he did, he was to lose the wealth-giving power. Trusting 
him to find some spot where they might meet without obser- 
vation, she dismissed him for the present, and he returned 
straight to Cardiff, where he freely indulged his taste for gene- 
rous profusion, making presents to his friends, assisting the 
necessitous, and still finding his purse always replenished. 

That year — 'twas past the Baptist's day — 

The barons, in pure idleness, 
Repaired to where an orchard lay 

Skirting a tower, a lone recess, 
Where Queen Genevra took delight. 

The queen, escorted by thirty of her maidens, left the tower 
to join them ; and perceiving Lanval standing pensively apart 
from the rest — he was thinking of his absent love — she ap- 
proached and accosted him, avowing a long- cherished attach- 
ment, and soliciting its return. That was refused. The queen, 
enraged, declared to her lord that she had been insulted by 
Lanval. He was accordingly apprehended by order of the 
monarch, and brought to trial. We pass by the preparations 
for this solemnity, and the distress of Lanval at finding that 
his indiscretion in revealing the secret had deprived him of 
the fairy's assistance. The critical moment arrives, and while 
the barons are considering their verdict, two beautiful dam- 
sels, on white palfreys, closely followed by two more, announce 
to the king a visit from their mistress : — 

Anon, just as the court prepare 

To render judgment, through the town 

A lady, most surpassing fair — 

In Christendom no such was known — 



LAY OF LANVAL. 77 

On a white palfrey speeds apace. 

The beast was of the noblest breed : 
His head and neck he bears with grace, 

Rich are the trappings of the steed ; 
A king who would the like acquire, 

Must sell or pledge his lands, I ween. 
Now mark her beauty and attire : 

A tissue of transparent sheen. 
On either side by clasps confined, 

Did partly veil and partly show 
A form unmatched in womankind. 

Whiter her neck than new-fallen snow ; 
Her eyes were blue, complexion fair. 

Her mouth and nose in symmetry, 
Her eyebrows dark thou mightst compare 

To bows just bent for archery ; 
Light auburn locks her shoulder graced, 

Her purple mantle loosely flowed, 
A falcon on her hand was placed, 

A greyhound followed where she rode 

In all the city was not one, 

Master or valet, young or old. 
But left his wonted task undone, 

Her wondrous beauty to behold. 
«- * * 

The lady to the palace wends, 

Where^ever yet such beauty came ; 
In Arthur's presence she descends. 

And all who view admire the dame. 
Her mantle she lets fall behind. 

Her form the better to display. 
The king in courtesy refined, 

Rises to greet her sans delay ; 
The courtiers make obeisance due, 

Eager to serve her to their best. 
From lip to lip her praises flew. 

And every heart her power confessed. 
At length she spake : " I here resort 

To plead for one I love, Lanval. 



78 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

He was neglected at tby court, 

Alone forgot when guerdoned all ; 
His innocence I come to prove ; 

The queen hath wronged thy best in arms 
He never sought nor wished her love. 

Touching his boast — compare our charms. 
If mine deserve the preference, 

Then, barons, ye're in duty bound 
To judge him guiltless of offence." 

Lanval was forth with absolved; and when the lady rode 
awaj; he closely followed her. 

To Avalon, 'tis said, they went — 

So sing the Britons in their lays ; 
There in each other's love content, 

Remote from strife, they passed their days. 

Besides lays, France owes to Marie a collection of fables, 
not indeed original as to the invention, but new in the mode 
of exhibition. They are in substance the same which have 
been repeated in all ages, from Esop to La Fontaine.* Marie 
had few imitators in this species of composition ; but perhaps 
her fables suggested the idea of those interminable allegories 
which fed the fancy and stimulated the curiosity of the French 
nation for three centuries. Unlike as they are to the fables 
both in form and extent, they are analogous in their object — 

* LA MORS ET LI BOSQUILLON. 

Tant de loin que de prez n'est laide 
La mors. La clamoit a son ayde 
Tosjors ung povre hosquillon 
Que n'ot chevance ne sillon : 
" Que ne viens, disoit, 6 ma mie. 
Finer ma dolorouse vie V 
Tant brama qu'advint ; et de voix 
Terrible : " Que veux-tu ?" " Ce bois 
Que m'aydiez a carguer, madame \" 
Peur et labeur n'ont raesme game. 



ROMANCE OF THE ROSE. 79 

whicli was to clothe dangerous truth in a disguise which should 
secure its circulation. There is a personification, not of the 
lower animals, but of virtues, vices, political and religious 
principles, concealing bitter sarcasm, and generally a good 
moral inference. 

The most celebrated, and probably the most ancient of these, 
is the Romance of the Rose^ — a work of 20,000 lines, com- 
menced in the thirteenth century by GtUILLAUME de Lorris, 
and continued fifty years later by Jean de Meun. It is a 
dream, in which a host of allegorical personages appear to 
conduct the incidents of a tedious love affair. The object of 
attraction is the rose ; Dame Oiseuse inspires the lover with a 
desire of finding it; Male-Bouche and Dangler mislead his 
search; while Felonie, Bassesse, Haine, and Avarice, throw 
obstacles in the way. The imagination is invited to wander 
thus among crowds of fictitious beings, the representatives of 
abstract ideas, in whom it is impossible to feel the interest that 
would have been excited by the most trivial display of human 
feeling and action. Then, unlike any previous poetry that we 
know of, the Romance of the Rose contains a great deal of 
learned lore ; scholastic subtleties and scraps of ancient his- 
tory mingle freely with abstractions and allegories : we meet, 
for instance, with the cruelties of Nero and the death of Se- 
neca, as well as that of Lucretia; here a passage on alchemy; 
there a digression on Boethius and his book ; now a chivalrous 
episode ; and again a eulogium on St. Augustine. A few lines 
will give an idea of the state of the language at this time.f 

* An account of Chaucer's translation of this poem may be found in God- 
win's Life of Chaucer, vol. ii. p. 230. 

t Le temps qui s'en va nuyt et jour 
Sans repos prendre et sans sejour, 
Et qui de nous se part et emble 
Si celeement, qu'il nous semble 



80 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

This poem excited unbounded admiration in its day ; it was 
considered as a master-piece of wit, a splendid moral concep- 
tion, a fine display of philosophy in the garb of poetry. The 
most general belief was, that it veiled the deepest theological 
mysteries from the merely sensuous reader, and, accordingly, 
learned commentaries were written to supply the key to these 
treasures of divine wisdom. Truth is, that every class of 
visionaries might find its own prototype in one or other of 
these allegorical personages ; and the mystic Rose might be 
either the golden dream of the alchemist, the occult science 
of the astrologer, or the beatific vision of the fanatic. The 
preachers of the day seem, in the first instance, to have been 
divided in their opinions as to its merits : some fulminated 
their censures of it as a corrupting volume ; others mingled 
quotations from it with those of holy writ. This amorous 
dream of De Lorris being afterwards used by Jean de Meun 
as the framework for a satire on all classes of society, and the 
clergy coming in for a large share, they made it the object of 
persecution enough to render it immortal. 

The imitations of this poem were almost endless. One of 
the earliest was that of the Trois Pelerinages — a dream of 
most appalling length, as each pilgrimage occupies 10,000 or 
12,000 verses. The first is the pilgrimage of man, or human 
life on earth ; the second, the pilgrimage of the soul, or the 
life to come ; the third, the pilgrimage of Jesus Christ, or the 
life of our Lord. 

Qu'il nous soit ades en un point, 
Et s'il ne s'y arreste point, 
Ains ne fine de trespasser. 
Si que Ten {Von) no pourroit penser 
Lequel temps c'est qui est present ^ 
Ce le {ne?) demand-je au clerc lysant, 
Car ain^ois {avant)^ qu'il eust ce pensez, 
Seroit-il ja oultre passez. 



ALLEGORIES. 81 

About the same time appeared tlie Bible Guyot (Book of 
Guyot) — a bitterly satirical work of tbe same kind, containing 
the Booh of Mandevie (Amendment of Life), the Book of 
Clergie (The Sciences), and many others of similar kind.* 

If we feel astonished at the patience of those who could 
, peruse these long and stupid works, it may suffice to remem- 
ber, that books were remarkably scarce in those days, and that 
a single volume was often the sole literary treasure of a large 
family circle, to whom it was read over and over, as often as 
reading was required to pass the long evening in court or 
hall. These allegories, then, served as riddles to stimulate 
the wit of the company, who speculated on the author's pri- 
mary design, and ever and anon discovered new applications 
of his symbolic details. The scraps of ancient histor}' and 

* The following are some of the introductory verses: — 
Dou si^cle puant et orrible 
M'estuet coinmencier une bible {livre), 
Por poindre (piquer) et por aiguilloner, 
Et pour grant essample doner. 
Ce n'iert (sera) pas bible losengiere (loiiangeuse), 
, Mes fine et voire {vraie) et droituriere; 

Mireor iert a toutes gens : 
Ceste bible, or ne argenz 
Esloingner de rien ne me puet, 
Qar de Dieu et de raison muet [se meut, provient) ; 
Ce que je veux center et dire 
Est sanz felonie et sanz ire. 
Voldrai le siecle molt reprendre, 
Et assaillir et reson rendre, 
Et diz et essamples mostrer 
0^ tuit cil {tons ceux) se porront mirer 
Qui entendue et creance ont : 
Que toutes les ordres qui sont 
Se porront mirer es biaux diz, 
Et es biaux moz que j'ai escriz. 
Se mirent cil qui bien entendent, 
E il prodome {les sages) s'i amendent. 



82 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

scholastic philosophy, too, must have been highly acceptable 
to those who had no access to the books in which such matters 
were more exclusively contained. 

Among the larger satirical works of this poriod, none has 
obtained a more lasting reputation than the cycle of poems 
called The Adventures of Reynard the Fox^ — a much more 
extensive work than the popular story which a later age has 
received from the Germans. It consists of a series of rambling 
and unconnected episodes, each of which is a satire upon some 
class of individuals, or some point in the political system which 
was a subject of popular complaint. Traces of the story are 
met with as early as the twelfth century ; and it is difficult to 
assign it a particular date. It would appear that the cunning 
and unscrupulous character of the fox had been from a very 
early period employed in fables of political satire 3 and this is 
perhaps a collection of such productions thrown into the form of 
a regular narrative. Some of the adventures of Keynard exhibit 
the general rapacity and injustice of the times — every man 
watching an opportunity to cheat his fellow; others satirize 
particular classes and orders of general society ; others, again, 
describe the disorders of the ecclesiastics, and expose the hypo- 
crisy of religious professors ; while the confession and pilgrim- 
age are bitter enough satires on the two great instruments of 
the clergy for abusing the credulous confidence of the laity, 
and turning it to their own advantage. 

We come now to notice the Fahliaux of the trouv^res; and 
without affecting a very exact or logical definition, we may 
characterize a fabliau as a jeu d' esprit, generally based on 
some well known proverb, anecdote, or adventure, strongly 
marked with satire, dramatic in its form, and moral in its 
tendency. Some of these compositions, indeed, are so emi- 
nently dramatic, that it is a wonder they did not give rise to 

* See one version of this famous Apologue by S. Naylor, London, 1845. 



FABLIAUX. 83 

regular comedy. But nearly all are so coarse in their details 
— the most spirited being the worst in this respect — that it 
is diflScult to give a resume of any without conveying a false 
impression. 

As in our own day, some works are better known by the 
Dame of the publishers than of the authors, so these seem to 
have been recognised as the property of such a jongleur, 
rather than the invention of such a trouv^re ; many of them 
are of Eastern origin, and have been only slightly modified to 
suit the audience to be entertained by them. The jongleurs, 
like Shakspeare's fools, had license to say anything with impu- 
nity : no class either of men or of women escaped their satire 
monarchs and nobles, bishops and priests, monks, philosophers 
and dancers, even saints and devils, were castigated in turn 
and while we cannot forgive their impiety, we must award 
them the palm for being the monopolists of truth. Certainly 
their satire does not generally present, as in the case of the trou- 
badours, the interesting character of mental and literary free- 
dom in individual opposition to feudal oppression ; and yet it 
were gross injustice to consider the fabliers as mere retailers 
of scandal. Some of them, at least, had a higher mission. In 
an age when the crown and the commons were alike held in 
subjection by an insolent and powerful aristocracy, when the 
king was but the puppet, and the people the chattels of the 
barons, while both were the dupes of the clergy, the fabliers 
had the courage to combat the arrogance of the one and expose 
the vices of the other. They were the first, so far as appears, 
to give the sovereign the hint that he might deliver himself 
from his shackles by making common cause with the people. 

One of the least exceptionable of these fabliaux is the battle 
between Carnage and Careme (flesh-days and fast-days), of 
which the ostensible object is to record how milk, cheese, and 
eggs came to be permitted on fast-days ; while it embodies the 
political lesson we have referred to, by representing the de- 



84 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

feated Careme as tlie favorite of the nobles^ and the victorious 
Carnage as the darling of the king and people. Though 
abounding with puerilities and ill-assorted metaphors, this 
fabliau is so good a specimen of the literature of the thirteenth 
century, that we venture to introduce it more particularly by 
analysis and translation : — 

At Whitsunday, I chanced to be 
At court, and heard the history 
Of war between two potentates, 
Which for your mirth my Muse relates. 
Equal in wealth and lands were they, 
And numerous vassals owned their sway. 
One of the twain was Carnage hight, 
Esteemed a valiant, generous knight 
By king and people. T' other's name, 
Dear to the barons, was Careme ; 
A felon, as all those can tell, 
Who 'neath his sordid empire dwell. 
Poor folks he loathed, the rich adored, 
And gave them freely of his board. 
Many rich castles he possessed, 
Abbeys and convents, and the rest ; 
Whence he enormous tribute drew; 
The sea was *neath his empire too ; 
Seigneur he was of bays and strands, 
Of rivers, streams, and lakes, and ponds. 
I'll tell you how the battle rose 
T'wixt these exasperated foes ; 
The day they called their levies out ; 
The issue of the deadly rout. 

As King Louis was holding his court at Paris, this Careme 
appeared with proud distinction, attended by Salmon, Plaice, 
and other knights of the ocean ] while Carnage, finding him- 
self scorned and neglected, vowed vengeance against his rival. 
Whereupon Careme thus addressed him : — 



FABLIAUX. 85 

*' What mean thy threats, vile Carnage, say? 

Wouldst thou with me provoke the fray ? 

Hence ! in this palace, by the rood, 

No right thou hast, but dost intrude. 

Unsought thou com'st : I, I alone 

•Am welcomed with a benison; 

Ladies and knights their homage bring, 

Ladies and knights salute me king !" 

*' Thou liest ! Nor thou, nor all thy race 

Can rival me in right or place. 

Hence from the palace with thy rabble ! 

We'll soon appease thy senseless gabble.'' 

After some further squabbling^ both heroes summon their 
vassals and prepare for war. Sir Herring, the herald on one 
side, commands the attendance of the fish from the whale 
downward — 

E'en to the minnows news he brings 
Of war between the rival kings. 

Carnaore also assembles his armies : — 



■■*& 



First came a host of potent soups, 
Then chops and steaks in various groups ; 
Then pork well seasoned ct la vert, 
Came at the monarch's special prayer ; 
Eoast joints regaled his royal eyes, 
Pigeons and conies in huge pies ; 
Fat haunches with delight he views, 
CoUops of beef in savory stews ; 
Goslings with giblets he discovers, 
Roast peacocks, curlews, widgeons, plovers, 
Storks, wild-ducks, herons, bitterns, doves, 
And the small tenants of the groves. 
Cock-swans came last, a precious race, 
Worthy a monarch's board to grace. 
Then well-spiced sausages, that told 
Of chitterlings, in cauls enrolled, 



86 rR:eNCH literature. 

And mustard, keen provocative ! 
How could Careme behold and live? 

^ -x- -x- 

Now Carnage, glancing on the rear, 
Levies of milk discovers near, 
From valleys bound right merrily, 
With butter leagued in amity. 
Hot tarts and custard in round dishes, 
Came menacing the saucy fishes, 
Squadrons of cream were seen to sally 
"With lance in rest, from hill and valley ; 
Fresh cheeses from another part 
Advanced, each brandishing a dart ; 
Curds followed close ; but who can tell 
What hosts of milk the legions swell ! 
Behold a chief of high degree, 
A solid cheese, no coward he ! 
To succor Carnage at his need 
He comes well mounted on a steed. 

Vainly warned tliat lie is about to wage an unequal and 
disastrous war^ Careme dons his armor. 

Not steel the visor; it was made 
Of tench, without the smithy's aid; 
Of a fresh salmon his cuirass ; 
His coat-of-mail a lamprey was ; 
Two flat impenetrable skates 
Composed his ample shoulder-plates ; 
His casque, a pike to guard his head, 
With roasted eels encompassed ; 
A long broad sole composed his blade; 
His spurs of pointed fishbones made; 
The grooms a huge gray mullet bring, 
No common courier suits the king. 
Carnage an ample stag bestrode, 
In beef and mutton mailed he rode ; 
No need had he to dread a blow 
From mackerel or aquatic foe ; 



FABLIAUX. 87 

Hauberk of partridges and quails, 

And lesser game supplied the nails ; 

The head of an enormous boar. 

With polished tusks, for helm he wore; 

A peacock on the helmet beamed, 

In sooth, the king of kings he seemed. 

An eagle's beak his spurs supplied ; 

He wore them with a knightly pride ; 

Girt on his thigh a spit was seen, 

Which erst a butcher had made clean; 

It had been sharpened by a cook ; 

A large round tart for shield he took ; 

Hot cheese-cakes, pasties, omelets, bound it; 

The whole with rim of paste surrounded. 

But of the stag which he had mounted, 

'Tis meet a little be recounted. 

With larks, that fair Aurora greet, 

With nightingales and linnets sweet 

His horns were garnished high and low. 

Sprightly he was, and nothing slow, 

His feet were shod before, behind, 

On every shoe were birds designed ; 

The nails were pepper-corns ; the seat 

Was of blanc-manger, soft and sweet, 

To ladies dear, and men of taste ; 

The pannels were of solid paste ; 

His banner was a new-made cheese. 

Or milk just curdled, if you please. 

♦'Let's on!" he cried; and on they go, 

Steed facing steed, and foe to foe. 

^f * * 

Just as the furious champions closed, 
A troop of capons interposed, 
Thirsting for blood. Not less elate. 
Whitings and haddocks, urged by fate, 
The battle waged. Astounding sight, 
When fish and fowl for honor fight ! 

* * «SJ 



88 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Mackerel and flounders, nothing quailed. 
Huge sirloins of roast-beef assailed ; 
And eggs, a formidable levy, 
Quickly dispersed the herring bevy. 
Just then a salmon, fresh and strong, 
Spurring his steed the ranks among, 
Fiercely attacked a roasted chief, 
The noblest of the race of beef, 
And mauled him so, that consternation 
Had spread a panic o'er the nation. 
Had not undaunted Carnage seen, 
And rushed the combatants between ; 
Spurring his stag, he dealt a blow 
So vigorous on the exulting foe, 
It soon composed the salmon's mettle ; 
Down popped the champion in a kettle 
That hissed beneath unhappy fish — 
There lacked but pepper for a dish. 
O then 'twas wondrous to behold 
Beans, peas, and lentils rushing bold 
T' avenge their comrade in the caldron. 
Yes, beans and peas advanced in squadron. 
Ci)ld, hot^ green, dry, all, all ahoop 
in porridge some, and some in soup. 
Pepper had raised their courage high ; 
The king had rued his victory, 
But that a host of sausages 
Arrived and checked their ravages. 
Both beans and peas had routed been, 
But new assailants intervene ; 
Eels just emerging from the mud 
Compel the sausages to scud ; 
Carnage remains in jeopardy. 
Skate, haddocks, monsters of the sea, 
Dabs, oysters, congers, pilchards, bream, 
Flukes, sauced with fennel, join Carcme. 
Sudden a knight, his surname Jack, 
Well mounted on a mullet's back, 



FABLIAUX. Oy 

Assails a pasty ; stuffing, crust, 
And gravy welter in the dust. 
Fierce raged the battle far and wide, 
And fish and fowl promiscuous died ; 
'Twas terrible to either host, 
But thine, Careme, had suffered most. 
Carnage, of his achievements proud, 
Sounded a horn so dire and loud, 
That hill and dale re-echoed round ; 
His vassals heard and knew the sound. 
'Twas night; each army went to quarters, 
Tired with fatigue and mutual slaughters. 

The morning brings reinforcements to Carnage; the fol- 
lowers of Careme clamor for peace^ and — 

A herring bears Careme's submission, 
Without reserve, without condition. 

While Carnage is considering the terms, Christmas comes for- 
ward, and insists on dictating them — 

** Careme must quit the kingdom straight; 
Nor longer tarry in the state 
Than six weeks, and three days beside ; 
In other country he must bide. 
On these conditions we agree 
To cease our just hostility.'* 
*'Sir Christmas, be not so severe, 
Exclaimed the king: " no danger fear ; 
Let him and all the host at will 
Establish here their domicile ; 
Let others, if their taste it suits, 
Do penance on salt fish and roots." 
The knotty point thus Carnage carried; 
And all who in his empire tarried. 
Eggs, milk, and cheese might eat on Fridays, 
As freely as on feasts and high days. 
8* 



90 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Thus was Careme declared to be 
Liegeman to Carnage' seigneury. 

Satan and satanic agents were often introduced into tte fab- 
liaux. They were always made subjects of burlesque, and held 
up to ridicule in the same manner as were the priests, barons, 
and other hated tyrants^ against whom the trouvere minstrelsy 
was directed. It was the merit of the Italian poets first to invest 
Satan with a lofty spirit, and render him an object of respect- 
ful terror instead of ridicule and disgust ; while to Milton it 
was reserved to complete the splendors of satanic majesty. 

The poetry of the trouveres is a mine of gold, though so 
largely mixed with alloy that it is difficult to extract the pure 
metal. Its romances, apologues, lays, fabliaux, and chronicles 
contributed to every species of subsequent literature, unless 
tragedy be excepted. They contained the germs of most of 
those rich productions of genius, which gradually matured and 
attained their highest perfection in the age of Louis XIY. 
Nor in France alone. It was to the troubadours and trouveres 
that Italy owed a large part of the materials which Dante, 
Petrarch, and Boccaccio clothed with new forms ; while Eng- 
land, somewhat later, gathered largely from both. 

Lyric poetry, in the style of the troubadours, received some 
cultivation at this time, but chiefly among the sovereign princes 
and more powerful barons. Thibaud III.,'^ Count of Cham- 
pagne, and afterwards King of Navarre, was the most eminent 
of these ; but whatever his merits, the style did not fall in 
with the prevailing taste; and his love ditties excited no such 
admiration as the lays of Marie his contemporary. Posterity 
would perhaps never have heard of them, but for the author's 
supposed attachment to Blanche of Castile, the mother of St. 

* Born 1201. Died 1258. An account of liis attachment to Blanche of 
Castile may bo found in Mrs. Bush's Lives of the Queens of France, vol. L 
pp. 152-4. ' ' . 



MEDIAEVAL MYTHOLOGIES. 91 

Louis, and the influence which this exercised upon the affairs 
of the kingdom.* 

'^ After the troubadours of Provence and the trouveres of 
Northern France, our poetry by small degrees/^ says Pasquier, 
^^ lost its credit, and was neglected for a considerable time.^' 

The thirteenth century saw the completion of the three 
great mythologies of the middle age, which may be designated 
the religious, the chivalrous, and the allegorical. These were 
not, as we have already said, the invention of single indivi- 
duals, but a collective imagination like that which created the 
beautiful fables of antiquity. 

Religion, no less than feudality, had its chivalry, for igno- 
rance had rendered the worship of saints a species of pagan- 
ism, full of fabulous stories, such as the Golden Legend of 
Pierre de Voragine; and on the other hand, they had coun- 
terparts of the profane fabliaux in comic tales of an edifying 
character, in which the outwitting of the devil formed the 
burlesque of the Christian marvellous. 

Chivalrous mythology, when complete, had borrowed fairy- 
land from the North, and sorcery from the East ; it had laid 
Scandinavian traditions, Arab fables, and Christian legends, 

^ Here is one of his songs : — 

Une chanson encor voil 
Faire, pour moi conforter, 
Pour celi dont je me cloil 
Voeil mon chant renoveler ; 
Por ce ai talant de chanter : 
Car quant je ne chant, mi oil 
Tornent sovent en plorer. 
SimjDle et franco sans orgoil 
Quidai ma dame trover : 
Molt me fut de bel acoil, 
Mes ce fut pour moi grever; 
Si sont a. li mi penser, 
Ke la nuit, quant je somoil, 
Va mes cuer mcrci crier. 



92 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

under contribution, to form its company of genii, enchanters, 
fairies, giants, dwarfs, and griffins, to help or hinder the fan- 
tastic enterprises of adventurous knights. 

The personification of virtues, vices, and abstract ideas, 
formed the allegorical, which, as we have seen, appeared first 
with the Romance of the Rose, and was perpetuated through 
a long series of similar works. This is the class of mytho- 
logical personages that caught the fancy of our earliest English 
poets. It mingles in the tales of Chaucer, who treated chival- 
rous poetry with contempt, and almost entirely fills the tedious 
poem of Spenser's Faery Queene. 

Lyric poetry, as we have seen, had not been sufficient to 
perpetuate the Provencal, but north of the Loire the epic fur- 
nished a broad and solid base for a national language, as had 
been the case in ancient Greece and Italy. Nor only so ; the 
inexhaustible repertory of trouvere poetry has supplied to an 
almost unknown extent the bards of other countries through- 
out Europe. The sublime imaginings of Dante were evidently 
suggested by their allegories. The tales of Boccaccio are little 
more than a repetition of their fabliaux ; Ariosto's materials 
were their romances of chivalry; the Portuguese Amadis da 
Gaula probably originated in the same school ; and as for our 
own country, to say nothing of Chaucer and Spenser, our minor 
poets have been more indebted in this direction than they have 
had the candor to acknowledge. Parnell, for instance, does 
not tell, but it has been discovered, that his celebrated poem 
of The Hermit is almost a literal translation of one from the 
trouveres, entitled The Hermit and the Aiigel.^ 

Nor only did France in the middle age give birth to a cycle 
of literature, which from the thirteenth century was used as a 



* Milton says, "I will tell you whither ray younger feet wandered; I 
betook me among those lofty fables and romances, which recount in solemn 
cantos the deeds of knighthood." 



THEATRICALS. 93 

model by other nations ; it also became a scientific rendezvous. 
The University of Paris was a fortress raised in the twelfth 
century by intellect against ecclesiastical dogmatism; and 
hither resorted from all parts of Europe men greedy of know- 
ledge, and aspiring after intellectual independence. Here 
Brunetto, Latini, and Dante improved themselves. Here 
Roger Bacon passed many years in deep seclusion and 
study — the reason of the preference^ perhaps, being found 
chiefly in the good order and equal administration of justice 
which the metropolis of France enjoyed under Louis IX., while 
the other capitals of Europe were subject to confusion and 
violence. Here the scholastic system of dialectics was culti- 
vated, and through its influence the literature took such a turn 
as ever after to incline more to eloquence than poetry. From 
this stronghold, too, there issued, contemporaneously with the 
fabliaux, a host of satires in Latin verse, directed against the 
usurpations of the ecclesiastical body, and so much to its an- 
noyance as to render it little matter of wonder that churchmen 
found no rest till they obtained a footing in this establishment 
themselves, and kept its wit and learning under their own 
influence.* 



1 1 1.~D R A M A T I C POETRY. 

DESTRUCTION OF THE ANCIENT THEATRE — THEATRICAL EXHIBITIONS IN 
CHRISTIAN CHURCHES — THE MYSTERIES — THAT OP THE PASSION — THE 
MORALITIES. 

It is among this people, and during this period, that we are 
to trace the first rude efforts for the revival of the most difii- 
cult of the arts ; that which had been carried to such perfec- 
tion in ancient Greece, and which was destined to appear with 
renewed splendor in modern Europe. 

*- For fuller details upon the subject of ihia chapter, see Dunlop's History 
of Fiction. 



94: FRENCH LITERATURE. 

The aneieut theatre had received its death-blow from Ohris- 
tianity. It had, indeed, too well deserved the anathemas which 
were hurled at it by the early Christian preachers, having 
become so indecorous as even to be reckoned by Julian, the 
apostate, unlit for the attendance of his pagan priests. The 
histrionic profession, which had been so honored in Greece, 
had been placed under the ban of both church and state, and 
its ruin was completed by the invasion of the northern barba- 
rians, some feeble remains only lingering at Constantinople. 

But it would seem to be the natural tendency of the human 
mind to demand the excitement inspired by spectacles of this 
nature, especially at a certain stage of its progress towards 
maturity ; and so it happened that a new theatre arose in the 
very midst of the church which had annihilated the ancient 
one. The ceremonies of religion became themselves dramatic 
exhibitions, and that of the most profane and licentious cha- 
racter. It was not enough to commemorate the solemn recol- 
lections of Christianity by reading, and prayer, and medita- 
tion ; they were acted, made plays of, in short ; and to relieve 
the tragic feeling and solemn impression which such exhibi- 
tions were calculated to awaken^ a mixture of the comic was 
introduced. 

^^ Theophylactes, of Constantinople, was the author of the 
still continued practice of offending God in the memory of the 
saints on holy days, by indecent jokes, laughing and shouting 
in the midst of holy hymns, which we ought to offer to God 
with contrition of heart for our salvation. He had collected 
a company of disreputable characters, and had placed at their 
head one Euthymes, whom he also appointed over the choir. 
And he instructed them to mingle with the divine service 
Satanic dances, vulgar cries, and songs taken from the streets 
and the lowest haunts of vice.'' So we have it in Cedrene, 
a Byzantine author of the eleventh century, that a bishop 
attached a theatrical company to his church. Little did the 



MYSTERIES. 95 

anthoi'S of sucli exhibitions dream that they were gropiug the 
way to the drama, and that they were seeking it by the same 
path as were the Greeks of old, when they celebrated the mys- 
teries of Eleusis. 

It is to be noted, at the same time, that the mediaeval Latin 
which served as a link between the ancient classics and the 
literature of modern nations^ had furnished some essays to pre- 
pare for the revival of the drama in the language of the people. 
Hroswithe, for instance, a German nun of the eleventh cen- 
tury, having read Terence, conceived the idea of writing little 
dramas in the same language on religious themes. She pro- 
duced six, which were acted by the young sisters of the con- 
vent, and probably often repeated. Of course such efforts in 
a dead language, in the seclusion of a cloister, and on subjects 
remote from modern interest, could exercise but little influence 
on the world without. 

The popular theatricals of the middle age are traced to the 
religious pilgrims of the twelfth or thirteenth century, who, 
on their return from the Holy Land — ^possibly borrowing a 
hint from the spectacles to which we have alluded as existing 
in Constantinople — attempted to convey an idea of the scenes 
they had witnessed in Palestine, by acting them over at home, 
with the aid of some rude paintings. It is certain that, about 
the end of the fourteenth century, a company of pilgrims re- 
presented such a spectacle at the nuptials of Charles VL and 
Isabella of Bavaria ; and that they soon afterwards formed an 
establishment in Paris for the regular performance of dramatic 
entertainments. They acted over the whole public life of the 
Saviour from his baptism to his death, but their chef-d'oeuvre 
was that of his last sufferings, and hence they were denomi- 
nated the Fraternity of the Passion. 

Familiar as we all are by name with the Mysteries and 
Moralities'^ of the middle age, it may not be amiss here to 

*A Miracle Play is introduced into Longfellow's Golden Legend. In 
the notes appended to that work may be found'descriptlons of recent repre- 
sentations of Miracle Plays. 



06 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

notice more particularly this earliest specimen of them. It 
introduces eighty-seven characters, among whom are the three 
persons of the Trinity, six angelic beings, six devils, the twelve 
apostles, Herod and his court, Pilate and his soldiers, besides 
a number more, the offspring of the poet's fancy. Some of 
these characters are well drawn, and the scenes occasionally 
display no small degree of tragic power. Extravagant ma- 
chinery appears to have been employed, and many parts to 
have been sung in recitative to music. The following is part 
of the scene in which John the Baptist is interrogated by the 
messens-ers of the Pharisees : — 



Though fallen be man's sinful line, 
Holy prophet ! it is writ, 
Christ shall come to ransom it, 
And by doctrine, and by sign, 
Bring them to his grace divine. 
Wherefore, seeing now the force 
Of thy high deeds, thy grave discourse. 
And virtues shown of great esteem, 
That thou art he we surely deem. 

^S'^. John. I am not Messiah ! — No ! 
At the feet of Christ I bow. 

Elyachim. Why, then, wildly wanderest thou 
Naked in this wilderness ? 
Say ! what faith dost thou profess ? 
And to whom thy service paid ? 

Bannanyas. Thou assemblest, it is said. 
In these lonely woods a crowd 
To hear thy voice proclaiming loud, 
Like that of our most holy men. 
Art thou a king in Israel, then ? 
Know'st thou the laws and prophecies ? 
Who art thou ? say ! 

Nathan. Thou dost advise 
Messiah is come down below. 
Hast seen him ? say, how dost thou know ? 
Or art thou he ? 

^S"^. John. I answer : No ! 



MYSTERIES. 97 

Nachor. Who art thou ? Art Elias, then ? 
Perhaps Elias ? 

St. John. No ! 

Bannanyas. Again ! 
Who art thou ? what thy name ? Express ! 
For never surely shall we guess. 
Thou art the Prophet? 

St. John. I am not. 

Elyachim. Who and what art thou ? Tell us what ! 
That a true answer we may bear 
Unto our lords, who sent us here 
To learn thy name and mission. 

St. John. Ego 
Vox clamantis in deserto. 
A voice, a solitary cry 
In the desert paths am I ! 
Smooth the paths, and make them meet 
For the great Redeemer's feet — 
Him, who, brought by our misdoing, 
Comes for this foul world's renewing. 

The result is fhe conversion and baptism of tlie messengers. 
In the baptism of the Saviour, the stage-directions are re- 
markable, and afford a graphic view of these Gothic enter- 
tainments : — 

'' Here Jesus enters the waters of Jordan all naked, and 
St. John takes some of the water in his hand, and throws it 
on the head of Jesus : — 

St. John. Sir, you now baptized are, 
As it suits my simple skill, 
Not the lofty rank you fill ; 
Unmeet for such great service I ; 
Yet my God, so debonair. 
All that's wanting will supply. 

^^ Here Jesus comes out of the river Jordan, and throws 
himself on his knees, all naked, before Paradise. Then God 
the Father speaks, and the Holy Ghost descends in the form 
9 



98 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

of a wliite dove upon the head of Jesus, and then returns into 
Paradise ; and note, that the words of G od the Father be very 
audibly pronounced, and well sounded, in three voices — that 
is to say, a treble, a counter- treble, and a counter-bass, all in 
tune; and in this way must the following lines be repeated: — 

Hie est filius mens delectus^ 

In quo mihi bene complacui. 

C'estui-ci est mon fils am6 Jesus, 

Que bien me plaist, ma plaisance est en lui." 

Good taste had not then suggested that tragedy and comedy 
should appear in separate dramas ; it was enough to produce 
them in different scenes. In this composition, the comic parts 
are filled by the devils, whose eagerness to give one another a 
wipe (se torchonner) occasioned great mirth in the assembly. 
Here is part of their dialogue : — 

Berith. Who he is, I cannot tell — 
This Jesus ; but I know full well, 
That in all the worlds that be, 
There is not such a one as he. 
Who is it that gave him birth 
I know not, nor from whence on earth 
He came, or what great devil taught him, 
But in no evil have I caught him ; 
Nor know I any vice he hath. 

Satan. Haro ! but you make me wroth, 
When such dismal news I hear. 

Berith. Wherefore so? 

Satan. Because I fear 
He will make my kingdom less. 
Leave him in the wilderness. 
And let us return to hell, 
To Lucifer our tale to tell, 
And to ask his sound advice. 

Berith. The imps are ready in a trice ; 
Better escort cannot be. 



MYSTERIES AND MORALITIES. 99 

Lucifer. Is it Satan that I see, 
And Berith, coming in a passion ? 

Ashtaroth. Master ! let me lay the lash on ; 
Here^s the thing to do the deed. 

Lucifer. Please to moderate your speed, 
To lash behind and lash before ye, 
Ere you hear them tell their story, 
"Whether shame they bring or glory. 

They relate tlie failure of their efforts to tempt the Holy One ; 
whereupon Ashtaroth falls upon them with his imps, and 
scourges them back to earth. 

This work is of immense extent^ filling a large folio volume, 
printed in close double columns. It was not — could not be — 
represented all at once, but was divided into sections, called 
journees or ^^days,^' a name which was retained in the Spanish 
drama, though its origin was forgotton. 

The Mystery of the Passion was soon followed by that of 
The Conception, The Nativity, and The Resurrection ; after- 
wards, the legends of the saints, as well as the whole of the 
Old Testament history, were dramatized and brought on the 
stage; and when the subject in hand was anyway deficient in 
authentic details, it only gave larger scope for the exercise of 
the poet's invention. 

The stage on which these pieces were represented consisted 
of three scaffolds rising above each other. The centre or ter- 
restrial one represented Jerusalem, or the native country of 
whatever saint or patriarch was in question. The stages above 
and below were for heaven and hell, where the proceed- 
ings of Deity and Satan were respectively displayed, and 
whence angels descended and devils ascended, as their inter- 
ference in mundane affairs demanded. 

At length the Clercs de la Bezoche (clerks of the revels) j 
a society of laymen incorporated for the regulation of public 
festivities, determined then" selves to get up dramas for the 



100 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

public amusement ; and as tlie Fraternity of tlie Passion en- 
joyed by royal charter a monopoly of the Mysteries, they 
invented the 3IoraUties. These differed little substantially 
from the former, some of them being the parables dramatized ; 
others, purely allegorical compositions, in which the virtues 
and vices were dramatis personce. But the company gradu- 
ally widening their sphere, ceased to restrict themselves to 
matters of edification, and, before the end of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, had produced veritable farces on subjects of modern 
interest. One of the most successful of these was that of the 
Avocat Pathelin, which appeared first in 1480, and has been 
remodelled and introduced again in the present age. It is to 
this work that we trace the expression, Eevenons a nos moutons^ 
which has become a proverb. 

No French Shakspeare arose to consecrate, ennoble, and 
perpetuate this truly national species of drama; and on the 
revival of classic tastes, the Mysteries and Moralities were put 
under interdict by Francis I., after a career of two centuries. 
Some of the best French critics of our own day consider it to 
have been seriously detrimental to the dramatic art, that the 
national genius was thus stifled under the influence of a more 
learned literature. So says one of them : ^^ The Mysteries were 
barbarous entertainments, no doubt, the infancy of the dramatic 
art, in which music, dancing, allegory, comedy, and tragedy 
were mingled and confounded ; but still they were scenes full 
of life and activity, from which we might have elicited a lite- 
rature much more original and more fertile, if our genius had 
not become Latin and Greek under Louis XIV/' 



STATE OF THE LANGUAGE. 101 



IV.— POETRY IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 

STATE OP THE LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE — CHRISTINE DE PISAN — ALAIN 
CHARTIER — CHARLES d'ORLEANS — VILLON. 

French had been as yet merely a popular language ; tlie 
vehicle of a literature which did but play on the surface of 
society; unequal to lofty themes, and destitute of the fixity 
requisite for serious composition. It varied from province to 
province, and from author to author, because no masterpiece 
had inaugurated any one of its numerous dialects. It was 
consequently disdained by the more serious writers, who of 
necessity continued to employ the learned Latin. 
/ In the fifteenth century, literature assumed a somewhat 
wider range, and the language began to take precision and 
force. It was an age of much general improvement in intel- 
ligence and taste for intellectual pursuits : there was a good 
deal of literary industry, and even some talent, but still there 
was nothing great or original : no one commanding genius ; 
nothing to mark an epoch in the history of letters. 

Christine de Pisan, a woman " of rare intellect and ex- 
quisite beauty,^^ left some verses, which entitle her to an 
honorable place among the poets of this age. She was born 
in 1367. The time of her death is unknown. She wrote 
several prose works. The following touching lines are from 
her pen : — 

ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 

A mourning dove, whose mate is dead, 
A lamb, whose shepherd is no more, 
Even such am I, since he is fled. 

Whose loss I cease not to deplore : 
Alas ! since to the grave they bore 

My sire, for whom these tears are shed, 
What is there left for me to love, — 
A mourning dove ? 
9* 



102 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

0, that his grave for me had room, 
Where I at length might calmly rest ! 

For all to me is saddest gloom, 
All scenes to me appear unblest ; 

And all my hope is in his tomb, 
To lay my head on his cold breast, 

Who left his child nought else to love ! 
A mourning dove ! 

Alain Chartier, who was born at Bayeux in 1386, and 
wlio died, as some say, in 1438, but according to others in 
1447, was renowned as a writer. He was secretary of Cbarles 
VI. and of Charles VII. The language was greatly indebted 
to him. His admirers have given him the title of the Father 
of French Eloquence. One of the best of his poems, '' La 
Belle Dame sans Mercy,'' is especially interesting to us, be- 
cause we have an old English translation of it, attributed to 
Chaucer.''^ 

Charles Duke of Orleans was the son of an Italian 
princess, which may account for the fact that while he adopted 
the allegorical style which had been the rage in France since 
the Romance of the Rose, he borrowed many of his ideas and 
expressions from Petrarch. Charles was made a prisoner at the 
battle of Agincourt, in 1415, and taken to England, where 
he was detained for twenty-five years. It is to this captivity 
that we owe the volume now referred to; yet, strange to say, 
it contains no expression of the poet's own veritable feelings. 
That series of misfortunes of which his history is made up — 
the assassination of his father, the death of his amiable mother 
in consequence, his own captivity, his double widowhood, from 
the death of two wives within nine years — not one of these 
themes drew from him a single couplet. No event, whether 

* An extract from this translation may be found in Longfellow's Poets 
and Poetry of Europe, p. 439. 



VILLON. 103 

public or personal; led him to the depths of his own heart for 
the poetry which might have embalmed it. He seems to have 
written to divert himself from his own thoughts, not to em- 
body them. Accordingly, we have here the whole cycle of 
Love's mythology; Amour and Venus are the sovereigns of a 
mighty empire ; Beauts, their prime-minister ; Bonne-Foi, their 
secretary ; Loyaute, the keeper of the seals. Bel-Acueil and 
Plaisance are the guardians of their palace ; Bonne-Nouvelle 
and Loyal-Kapport are their messengers; les Plaisirs-Mondains, 
their courtiers. Their subjects are various in name and cha- 
racter; the localities of the empire are such as T Hermitage 
de Pensees, le Bois de Melancholic, la Foret de Tristesse. 
Then there are humors now sad, now gay, imitated from the 
sonnets of Petrarch, and added to these already stereotyped 
characters. Charles d' Orleans was the last who imitated the 
Romance of the Rose, and the first who drew upon the Italian 
models.* 

The verses of Villon, a low ruffian of Paris,f were inspired 
by the events of his not very creditable life, and the difficul- 

'^^ The following verses on Spring are considered among the most grace- 
ful of Charles's minor pieces : — 

Le temps a laiss^ son manteau 

De vent, de froidure et de pluye, 

II s'est vestu de broderie, 

De soleil luisant, clair et beau. 

II n'y a beste, ni oiseau 

Qu'en son jargon ne chante ou crie : 

Le temps a laiss6 son manteau 

De vent, de froidure et de pluye. 

Riviere, fontaine, et ruisseau 

Portent en livree jolie 

Gouttes d'argent d'orfavrerie ; 

Chacun s'habille de nouveau : 

Le temps a laisse son manteau 

De vent, de froidure et de pluye. 
t Born 1431. Died about 1500. 



104 TRENCH LITERATURE. 

ties and dangers to which his vices exposed him. ' His lan- 
guage is not that of the court, but of the people; and his 
Repues Franches are the grotesque Iliad of his lawless career, f 
Again and again he suffered imprisonment for petty larcenies, 
and at the age of twenty-five was condemned to be hanged 
with five of his companions. On the evening before his anti- 
cipated fate, he composed a ballad,'^ in which he laughs at the 
disgraceful exposure^ — his body washed by the rain, dried in 
the sun, driven hither and thither by the winds; and yet there 
is melancholy in the gaiety; a tear is on the poet's eyelid, 
though the broad grin is about the mouth. The honor of Vil- 
lon's poetry is that of marking the first sensible progress after 
the Romance of the Rose. If any credit were due in this 
respect to the royal poet who preceded him, it is to be remem- 
bered that Charles had little or no influence over the literature 
of his day; the echo of those notes with which his prison 
resounded were not caught by the public ear till the eighteenth 
century; the volume to which we have referred remained un- 
known till it was discovered, in manuscript, in the British 
Museum, and published by the Abbe Sallier in 1734. 

'^'' La pluye nous a debuez et lavez, 
Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz, 
Pies, corbeaux, nous ont les yeux cavez, 
Et arrach^ la barbe et les sourcilz, 
Jamais nul temps nous ne sommes rassiz. 
Puis 9a, puis la, comme le vent varie, 
A son plaisir sans cesse nous charie, 
Plus becquetez d'oyseaulx que dez ^ couldre : 
Hommes, ici n'usez de mocquerie, 
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absouldre. 



HARDOUIN. 105 



v.— EARLY FKENCH PROSE. 

CHRONICLERS OF PERSONAL ADYENTrRES — TILLE-HARDOriX — JOINTILLE — 
THE PROFESSIONAL HISTORIAN FROISSART — ROMANCE OF ilERLIN IN 
PROSE — COiriNES, A PHILOSOPHICAL HISTORIAN. 

It has been well said; that ^^ literature begins witk poetry, 
but it is established by prose, which fixes the language/' 

The work usually referred to as the earliest effort in French 
prose is the Chronicle of Yille-Hardouin/'^ a production of 
the thirteenth century, interesting, indeed, in a philological 
point of view, but still more so as affording a lively picture of 
the middle age in one of its most singular enterprises. It is 
a personal nan-ative of chivalrous adventure, and relates with 
graphic particularity the conquest of Constantinople by the 
knights of Christendom. 

At a splendid tourney which was held at Champagne, a 
number of knights resolved to embrace the Crusade. They 
made all the preparations in their power ; but furnished though 
they were with horses, lances, and swords, they were obliged 
to apply to a city of merchants for vessels to transport them 
to the Holy Land. Six of their number, among whom was 
Ville-Hardouin himself, were sent for this purpose as deputies 
to Venice. The historian describes their introduction to the 
palace of the doge ; to the council ; and, finally, to a full assem- 
bly of the people in the Church of St. Mark ; for as Venice 
was now a democracy, these haughty barons of France ^^ must 
humbly supplicate the people.'^ It was Ville-Hardouin him- 
self who made the speech, f ^^ My lords, the highest and 

* Born 1167. Died 1213. 

t Jeflfroy de Ville-Hardoin li mareschaust de Champaigne monstra la 
parole pour Taccort, et par la volente as autres messages, et lor dist: Seig- 
nor, li baron de France li plus halt et plus poestez, nos ont a vos envoiez, 



106 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

most powerful barons of France have sent us to you, and im- 
plore you to take pity on Jerusalem, which is in the power of 
the Turks, and that you will, in the name of God, accompany 
them to avenge the dishonor of Jesus Christ ; and they have 
chosen you, because they know no nation is so powerful on the 
sea, and they have commanded us to fall at your feet, and not 
to rise till you have granted the promise of taking pity upon 
the Holy Land beyond the sea/^ The deputies continued 
weeping on their knees, till the whole assembly lifted their 
hands and cried : ^' \Ve agree ! we agree V' The historian 
next describes the slow preparations for the voyage, the death 
of the Count of Champagne, who was to have taken the com- 
mand, and the appointment of the Marquis of Montferrat in 
his stead. The intended pilgrims having collected at Venice, 
the aged doge, blind, and bending under the weight of four- 
score years, assembles the people again in the Church of St. 
Mark, and announces his own determination to join the enter- 
prise. At length the adventurers set sail for Corfu. The 
difficulties of the voyage, the jealousies and dissensions of the 
chiefs, are depicted with great simplicity, the historian seldom 
referring to his own deeds, and then with singular modesty. 
^^Thus witness I, Geoffrey,'^ he says, ^^ Marshal of Cham- 
pagne, who indited this work.^' Now we have an account of 
their arrival at Constantinople, and a picture of this Greek 
people, this petrified fragment of the Eastern Empire, brought 

si vos erient mercy que il vos preigne piti6 de Hierusalem, qui est en ser- 
vage de Turs, que vos por Dieu voilliez lor compaignier a la honte Jesu- 
Christ vengier, et por ce vos i ont eslis que il sevent que nuUes gens n'ont 
si grand pooir qui sor mer soient, comme vos, a la vostre genz, et nos com- 
manderent que nos vos enchaissions as piez et que nos n'en leveissions des 
que vos oriez octroye que vos ariez pitie de la Terre Salute d'outreraer. 
Main tenant li six messages s'agenoillent a lor piez mult plorant: li Dux et 
tuit liautre s'escrierent tuit h une voiz, et tendent lor mains en halt, et 
distrent: Nos I'otrions, nos I'otrions. Enki ot si grant bruit et si grant 
noise que il sembla que terre fondist. 



JOINVILLE. 107 

into collision with tlie young race of French warriors 3 the 
cunning and timidity of the Byzantine Court, teeming with 
plots; and the rude and ardent ambition of the Crusaders. 
Then we have their change of purpose, and the events which 
led them to take possession of Constantinople for themselves, 
and establish French seignories in Greece, with the mode in 
which they justify themselves for having diverted an army 
destined to subdue the infidels, and employed it in the con- 
quest of a Christian state. The chronicle ends with the events 
of the year 1207; and it is from the Byzantine historians 
that we learn how ephemeral was the influence of these con- 
querors, and how few traces they left on the language, reli- 
gion, or manners of the Greeks. The chivalrous romances of 
France, however, were received by these people for veritable 
histories; and fifty years afterwards, when all traces of the 
conquerors had disappeared, several noble families of Constan- 
tinople boasted their descent from the paladins Boland and 
Rinaldo. 

This ancient chronicle traces out for us some of the realities 
of that chivalry of which the mediaeval romances were the 
ideal ; and thus furnishes, in some sort, a guide whereby we 
may at least in part judge how far to understand those romances 
as embodying substantial truth. 

A great improvement in point of simplicity and perspicuity 
of style is apparent in Joinville,* the amiable and light- 
hearted ecclesiastic who wrote La Vie de St. Louis, whom he 
had accompanied to the Holy Land, and whose pious adven- 
tures he affectionately records. He has much more freedom 
and animation than Yille-Hardouin, mingling his narration of 
facts with records of his own feelings and opinions, and with 
descriptions of the persons and places that he saw.f 

*Born 1223. Died 1317. 

f Thus, for instance, he describes the Nile : — Ce flum (fleuye) est divers 



108 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

During the fourteenth century, France was involved in 
anarchy through misgovernment, civil war, and foreign inva- 
sion : nevertheless, it was not without symptoms of social pro- 
gress. In 1355, John II. being threatened with a new war 
against England, convoked the three estates of the realm — 
that is to say, the deputies of the nobles, the clergy, and the 
towns — when each, we are told, answered his appeal through 
a single speaker, and it was determined that the concurrence 
of the three orders should be necessary for carrying any poli- 
tical measure. The subsequent debates of this stormy period, 
if they have been faithfully transmitted, show what rapid ad- 
vances had been made by the commons during the two centu- 
ries to place them now on a level with those who had formerly 
enjoyed the monopoly of both politics and science. 

The third estate does not appear, however, to have made 
the same advance in the literary that they had in the political 
arena. The clergy continued to compose theological disquisi- 
tions, the nobles to make chivalrous poems and descriptions 
of tourneys and battle-fields, while the people wrote nothing 
but satires on the vices of the one class and the insolence of 
the other. 

But the public events, which were somewhat inimical to the 

de toutes autres rivieres ; car quant viennent les autres rivieres aval, e*; 
plus J chieent (tombent) de petites rivieres et de petitz ruissiaus, et en ce 
flum n'en chiet nulles : aingois avient ainsi que il vient tout en un chanel 
jusques en Egypte, etlors gete (jette) deli ses branches qui s'espandent parmi 
Egypte. Et quant ce vient apres la saint Remy, les sept rivieres s'espendent 
par le pais, et cuevrent les terres pleinnes; et quant elles se retroient, 
les gaugneurs (laboureurs) vont chascun labourer en sa terre a une charrue 
sans rouelles (roues) ; de quoy ils treuvent dedans la terre les fourmens, 
les orges, les comrainz, le riz, et vivent si bien que nulz n'i sauroit qua- 
mender (rien faire plus) ; ne se scet Ten dont celle treuve (trouvaille) vient 
mez que de la volont6 Dieu. . . . L'yaue (Feau) du flum est de tel nature, 
que, quant nous la pendions en poz de terre blans que Ton fait au pais, aus 
cordes de nos paveillons, Tyaue devenoit ou (au) chaut du jour aussi froide 
comme de fonteinne 



FROisSART. 109 

poetic Muse, gave inspiration to the historic ; and about the 
same time that Villani appeared in Italy, and that Ayala in- 
troduced some degree of simple eloquence into the chronicles 
of Spain, Froissart arose in France to impart vivacity of color- 
ing to historical narration. 

Froissart* was an ecclesiastic of the day — in plain terms, 
a jolly churchman — who certainly had at one time a cure of 
souls, but exhibited little either in his life or writings to be- 
speak the sacred profession. We must take the age as we find 
it. It was nothing strange in those days for a tonsured eccle- 
siastic to write a volume of erotic poetry, and to be found a 
constant guest at the festive-hall and nuptial-banquet. Frois- 
sart took holy orders in early life, but having little taste for 
the duties of his vocation, he presented himself to Robert de 
Namur, Lord of Montfort, who, perceiving in him a natural 
curiosity, the bent of which was to inquire concerning military 
achievements, engaged him to compose a chronicle of the wars 
of the time. Froissart forthwith assumed the title of a histo- 
rian, and used it as his introduction wherever he desired to 
inquire into matters which he wished to record. It is not 
easy for us to appreciate the difficulty of being a historian in 
that age. What could he relate ? There were no books to 
tell him of the past, no regular communication between nations 
to inform him of the present, for all was profound secrecy in 
the councils of princes. There was no help for him but to 
follow the fashion of knights-errant, and set out on horseback 
— not, indeed, to seek chivalrous adventures like the hidalgo 
de la Mancha, but as an itinerant historian, to hunt up talka- 
tive ancient chevaliers, ecuyers, et heraults d'armes, to furnish 
materials for his chronicle. He must wander from town to 
town, and from castle to castle, to see the places of which he 

* Born 1333. Died 1401. 
10 



110 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

would write, and learn the events on the spot. Such a roving 
commission exactly suited the temper of Froissart; and per- 
haps it would be hard to say whether he travelled in order to 
write, more certainly than he first undertook to write as an 
excuse for travelling. 

His first journey was to England, where he was cordially re- 
ceived and employed as clerk by Queen Philippa of Hainault. 
He accompanied the Duke of Clarence when he went to Milan 
for his bride, and here there met three of the choicest spirits 
of the age — Boccaccio and Chaucer with Froissart. After the 
death of Philippa, our historian passed successively into the 
service of several of the princes of Europe, for whom he acted 
as secretary and poet, always keeping his eyes and ears open 
to glean matters for historic record. A long life was spent 
thus in quest of facts ; sometimes he met as by good chance 
some one who volunteered to supply him with details from 
personal knowledge; sometimes he had long journeys here 
and there in search of eye witnesses of the events he desired 
to record. It is not well known where or how he wrote ; but 
that he compiled his chronicle in the midst of this restless 
kind of life, doubtless often altering, enlarging, or abridging, 
in England what he had written in France, and in France 
what he had done in England. 

The book thus composed is an almost universal history of 
the difi"erent states of Europe, from 1322 till the end of the 
fourteenth century. We say almost universal, for England 
and France are certainly predominant — the conquests of the 
one, the alternate misfortunes and successes of the other. But 
the author winds other stories about the main thread of his 
narrative, and always, like Herodotus, tells how, where, and 
from whom he received his information. His great events, 
battles, and fetes, he reserves to himself, and describes as 
though he had seen them ; but in minor details he introduces 
his informant, and repeats the dialogue that took place. He 



FROISSART. Ill 

troubles himself witli no explanations or theories of cause and 
effect, nor yet with dry statistics of ways and means, or with 
the philosophy of state-policy — he is simply a story-teller, and 
a graphic one. On the whole, he is considered impartial, 
though he has obviously a leaning towards England. We may 
think he seems less shocked than he ought to be at some of 
the outrages he relates ; but he would have been untrue to 
the spirit of the times had he made more of them. 

Sir Walter Scott called Froissart his master ; and there is 
more than one English translation of his chronicle. 

It is to him that we owe the well-known details of the siege 
of Calais by Edward III. ; the heroism of Eustace St. Pierre,* 
and his companions, who devoted themselves as victims to the 
king's displeasure that the other citizens might be spared; 



^ The following may prove as a specimen of tlie language at this period. 
. . , . Lors messire Jean de Vienne vint au marche, et fit sonner la cloche 
pour assembler toutes manieres de gens a la halle. Au son de la cloche, 
virirent hommes et femmes; car moult desiraient a ouir nouvelles. Quand 
ils furent tous venus et assembles en la halle, hommes et femmes, messire 
Jean de Vienne leur demontra moult doucement les paroles toutes telles 
que ci-devant sont recitees, et leur dit que autrement ne pouvait etre, et 
eussent sur ce avis et breve reponse. Quand ils ouirent ce rapport, ils 
commencerent tous h crier et pleurer, et n'eurent pour Theure pouvoir de 
repondre ni de parler, et m^mement messire Jean de Vienne larmoyait 
moult tendrement. 

Une espace apres se leva en pied le plus ricbe bourgeois de la ville, que 
on appelait sire Eustache de Saint-Pierre, et dit devant tous ainsi : " Seig- 
neurs, grand'pitie et grand mechef serait de laisser mourir un tel peuple, 
que ici a, par famine ou autrement, quand on y pent trouver aucun moyen. 
.... J'ai si grand'esp^rance d'avoir grace et pardon envers notre Seig- 
neur, si je meurs pour ce peuple sauver, que je veuil etre le premier; et me 
mettrait volontiers en ma chemise, a nud chef, et la hart au col, en la merci 
du roi d'Angleterre.^' Quand sire Eustache de Saint-Pierre eut dit cette 
parole, chacun Talla adorer de pitie ; et plusieurs hommes et femmes se 
jetaient h ses pieds, pleurants tendrement; et etait grand'pitie de la etre, 
et eux ouir, ecouter et regarder. 



112 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

and the intercession of Queen Philippa, by whicli they were 
saved.* 

Philip de Co mine sf was a man of his age, but in advance 
of it, combining the simplicity of the fifteenth century with 
the sagacity of a later period ; an annalist, like Froissart, but 
not a mere describer of battles and tourneys; he was a states- 
man, unfolding the secrets of government, and the arts of 
negotiation; a political philosopher, embracing, like Mac- 
chiavelli and Montesquieu, the remoter consequences which 
flowed from the events he narrated and the principles he 
unfolded. 

Comines learned the profession of a historian in making his 
own fortune as a politician. He was born a subject of the 
Duke of Burgundy, but perceiving it would not be advan- 
tageous to be the minister of so rash a prince, he secretly 
aided his enemy, Louis XI., and afterwards found it easy to 
transfer himself to his service. He conducted negotiations for 
him with England, Florence, Venice, Savoy; and if it was 
necessary to buy a minister in the course of such treaties, he 
undertook it cheerfully, and performed it prudently. It is to 
be regretted that the first French historian who was capable 
of treating his subject philosophically was so unscrupulous a 
diplomatist ; but such was the morality of the day. Comines 
had good sense enough to consider tyranny a bad speculation, 
but he had not virtuous feeling enough to hate the tyrant; he 
so admired skilful politics, that he could excuse a bad action 
if it was cleverly performed. 

His description of the last years of Louis XI. is a striking 
piece of history, whence poets and novelists have borrowed 

* Froissart also wrote poetry. There is a fine edition of a translation of 
his works by Johnes, London, 1806. A cheap reprint of it has also appeared 
in New York. 

t Born 1415. Died 1509. 



COMINES. 113 

themes in later times ; but neither the romance of Sir Walter 
Scott* nor the song of Berangerf does justice to the reality 
as presented by the pen of the curious, faithful, and attentive 
Comines. The details of misery at once royal and human, 
coming from a witness who never quitted the chamber, and 
who describes what he saw without aim at dramatic eJBfect, 
render this part of the history a singularly graphic picture. 

At the death of his master, Comines was compelled to sur- 
render the spoils of the innocent by which he had been 
enriched. His political fortune never flourished again, but 
his years of obscurity have given his country a great historian, 
and secured his own immortality. J 

* Quentin Durward. 

f The song is entitled Louis XL 

i A translation of his Memoirs is published in Bohn's Library. 



10^ 



THE AGE OF TRANSITION, 1500-1650. 



VI.— THE RENAISSANCE AND REFORM. 

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS — MAROT — RABELAIS — MONTAIGNE — CHARRON — ST. 
FRANCOIS DE SALES — SATIRE MENIPPEE. 

During the ages we have hitherto surveyed, the intelligence 
of France and the neighboring countries seems to have been 
divided into two great sections. On the one hand, there was 
the bold, chivalric mind of young Europe speaking with 
tongues of yesterday ; while, on the other, was the ecclesiastical 
mind, professional and dominant, delivering itself in the cor- 
rupted Latin. Erudition and civilization did not then go hand 
in hand. Here was one life of gayety and rude disorder, the 
life of the court and castle, as depicted in the literature we 
have been scanning ; but all this time there had been a life of 
solitude and reminiscence, the lot of men who, separated from 
the world and protected from violence, had not only been 
conning the lives of saints and singing the Gregorian chant, 
but studying the literary remains of antiquity, and transcribing 
and treasuring them for unborn generations. Hitherto these 
two sections had held on their respective courses apart, or they 
had encountered as deadly foes ; now they were to meet and 
blend in harmony; the vernacular poets, on the one hand, 
borrowing both thought and expression from the classics; and 
the clergy, on the other, becoming purveyors of light literature 
to the court circles : while deadly feuds on religious points 

(114) 



STUDY OF LANGUAGES. 115 

were to open a more serious career to the French language. 
We are briefly to remark the steps of this process. 

The fifteenth century, though somewhat barren, had pre- 
pared for the fecundity of succeeding ages. The revival of 
the study of ancient literature, promoted as it was by the down- 
fall of Constantinople, chasing the heirs of classic antiquity 
into France ; printing occurring at this juncture to multiply 
copies of recovered master-pieces ; the discovery of a new world 
in the west; the depression of feudalism; the triumph of 
monarchy; and the consequent elevation of the middle classes 
of the people : all these circumstances concurred in the promo- 
tion of good taste and the rapid improvement of the human 
intellect. 

During the early part of the sixteenth century, all the ardor 
of the French mind was turned to the study of languages ; the 
men of genius had no higher ambition than to be grammarians, 
no study but to think, to feel, to love, and to hate in the dead 
languages. Men who had attained to celebrity in the sphere 
of knowledge which belonged to the day, began their studies 
over again in their declining years, and went in their gray 
hairs to the schools where the languages of Homer and of 
Cicero were taught. Some, in their zeal to facilitate the 
general possession of the ancient classics, undertook them- 
selves to direct the printing-presses which they supplied by 
their writings. Erasmus and Bude wrote with one hand, and 
printed with the other. In civil and political society, the same 
enthusiasm manifested itself in the imitation of antique man- 
ners : people dressed in Greek and Roman fashion, borrowed 
from them the usages of life, and even made a point of dying 
like the heroes of Plutarch, delivering grave discourses, which 
they appeared to recite from memory. 

This impulse came first from Italy, whence the French wars 
had been the means of bringing the Greek and Latin books 
which, it would seem, the Itah'ans would never otherwise 



116 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

have shared with their Gallic neighbors^ whom they heartily 
despised. 

The religious reformation came soon afterwards, to restore 
the Christian, as the revival of letters had brought back the 
pagan antiquity. Ignorance was now dissipated; religion was 
disengaged from philosophy, and the scolastics forced to dis- 
appear. The Renaissance, as the revival of antique learning 
was called, and the Reformation at first made common cause, 
having for their enemies all the abettors of ignorance and 
superstition. The monks, for instance, used to say in their 
sermons : " There has lately been discovered a new language, 
which is called Greek. It must be carefully guarded against. 
This language teems with every kind of heresy.'' 

One of those who most greedily imbibed the spirit both 
of La Reforme and La Renaissance, was Marguerite de 
Valois,* the elder sister of Francis I. She studied in the 
original the works of Erasmus, whose views of moderate reform 
wxre those she embraced; knew enough of Greek to read 
Sophocles ; and learned Hebrew from Paul Paradis, for whom 
she procured a professor's chair in the College of France. 
Though Marguerite was favorable to religious reform, she con- 
trived to continue a most faithful subject of her brother; and 
through his steady regard for her, he obtained the credit of 
many generous actions which were truly hers. It would seem 
that the protection which he accorded to literature, and which 
obtained for him the title of Pere des Lettres, was really the 
work of his sister, which, however, was with some justice 
attributed to him, since he did not disavow it. But Francis 
himself was a man of superficial education and narrow views, 
more fond of arts than of letters, or, as it was said in the 
seventeenth century, of buildings than of writings. 



* See her Life by Martha Walker Freer, London, and Miss Pardee's 
Francis I. 



MAROT. 117 

To us it seems strange that tlie chef d'oeuvre of this learned 
and religious lady was U Heipiamiron^ ou Vhistoire des Amants 
fortunes, a work on the plan and in the spirit of the Deca- 
meron of Boccaccio^ which a lady of our times would bo 
ashamed to own acquaintance with, much more to adopt as a 
model. But it would appear that the gravity and propriety 
of the remarks with which the virtuous widow Oysille inter- 
sperses the tales, was, and in the eyes of some critics is still, 
deemed a sufficiently redeeming feature. The rest of her 
apology must be found in the manners of the times. Let us 
not forget that the Spectator, a work of comparative recency 
and in our own country, was deemed a perfect oracle of religion 
and morals, yet few of us would like to place it entire in the 
hands of our daughters. 

This was not the first essay that the French had made in 
borrowing from Italian story-tellers what these had originally 
drawn from the fabliaux. About the middle of the fifteenth 
century, the dauphin of France, afterwards Louis XL, had 
been entertained at the court of the Duke of Burgundy with 
tales imitated from Boccaccio ; and these had been afterwards 
collected by some unknown editor under the title of Cents 
nouvelles du Roi Louis XL They are, however, both in mat- 
ter and style, very inferior to the Heptameron, which is to be 
remarked as the earliest French prose that can be read without 
a glossary. 

In the year 1518, when Marguerite was twenty-six years 
of age, she received from her brother a gifted poet as a valet- 
de-chambre. This was Clement Marot,* between whom and 
the learned princess a poetical commerce was commenced and 
actively maintained. If she permitted him to address her in 
verses of gallantry, such was the right of every poet, however 

* Born 1505 — died 1544. In connexion with Beza he translated the 
Psalms. His brilliant, epigrammatic style is called the style marotique. 



118 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

humble, towards ladies of the highest rank and strictest virtue; 
it was a relic of the chivalrous manners which the reigning 
king was seeking to restore. And thus he sang : — 

A gentleness spread over a fair face 

Passing in beauty the most beautiful ; 

A chaste eye, in whose light there lies no stain j 

A frank discourse, so simple and so true 

That who should hear it through an hundred years 

Would never weary in that century ; 

A lively wit ; a learning which makes marvel ; 

And such sweet gracefulness diffused o'er all, 

And ever present in her speech or silence ; 

That fain I would my power did suffice 

To pen her merit on this paper down, 

Even as it is written in my heart. 

And all these precious gifts, and thousand more, 

Cling to a body of high parentage ; 

And tall, and straight; and formed in its fair. stature 

As if it were to be at once adored 

By men and gods. Oh ! would I were a prince ! 

That I might proffer to thee my poor service. 

Yet why a prince ? Is not the gentle mountain 

Often of aspect fairer than the crag ? 

Do not low olive-tree and humble rose 

Charm rather than the oak ? Is't not less peril 

To swim the streamlet than to stem the river ? 

I know I levy and defray no armies, 

I launch no fleets, whose prize might be a Helen's. 

But if my fortune had endowed me so, 

I would have died, or else have conquered thee. 

And if I am in fact no conqueror. 

Yet do my will and spirit make me one. 

My fame, like that of kings, fills provinces. 

If they o'ercome men in fair feat of arms, 

In my fair verse I overcome in turn. 

If they have treasure, I have treasure also, 

And of such things as lie not in their coffers. 

If they are powerful, I hold more power, 



MAROT. 119 

For I have that to make my love immortal. 
Nor this I say in vaunt, but strong desire 
That thou shouldst understand how never yet 
I saw thy match in this life of this world : 
Nor breathing being who the power owned 
Thus to make subject mine obedience. 

Marot went somewliat further than his mistress in his reli- 
gious views : he imbibed the principles of Calvin, whose credit, 
it is said, saved him from capital punishment, merited by 
some grave offence. He had drunk deeply also into the spirit 
of the Renaissance, and translated parts of Virgil and Ovid; 
but the general opinion is, that he displayed the poet more 
truly before he became either a theologian or a classic scholar. 
Marot is considered the last type of the old French-school, of 
that combination of grace and archness, of elegance and sim- 
plicity, of familiarity and propriety, ^^ which,'' says Guizot, 
^^has not been entirely lost among us, and which perhaps 
forms the most truly national characteristic of our poetic litera- 
ture ; the only one for which we are indebted to ourselves 
alone, and in which we have never been imitated.''* 

*Here is a specimen of Marot's French : — 

MAROT AU ROT. POUR AVOIR ESTE DESROB:^. 

Voila comment depuis neuf mois en 9a 

Je suis traicte. Or ce que me laissa 

Men laronneau, longtemps a, Fay vendu, 

Et en sirops et juleps despendu; 

Ce neantmoins, ce que je vous en mande 

N'est pour vous faire ou requeste ou deraande; 

Je ne veux point tant de gens ressembler 

Qui n^ont soucy autre que d'assembler : 

Tant qu'ils vivront, ils demanderont eux; 

Mais je commence a devenir honteux, 

Et ne veux plus a vos dons m'arrestcr. 

Je ne dis pas, si voulez rien prester, 

Que ne le prenne. II n'est point de presteur, 

S'il veut prester, qui ne face uu debteur; 



120 FRENCH LITERATURE. 



1483-1553. 



Francis Rabelais* was one of the most remarkable per- 
sons that figured in the Renaissance to which we have referred ; 
a learned scholar, physician, and philosopher, though known 
to posterity chiefly as a profane humorist. He is designated 
by Lord Bacon ^Hhe great jester of France ;'' and the gross 
bufiboneries amassed in his nondescript romance have rendered 
his name a common mark for any or every extravagance of 
unknown or doubtful parentage ; so that, like the ancient Her- 
cules, he is noted with posterity for many feats which he never 
performed, and these by no means to his credit. 

Rabelais was born at Chinon, a small town of Touraine, 
about the year 1483, though the precise date is unknown, as 
well as the character of his parentage. He received the first 
rudiments of education at the convent of Seville, but made so 
little progress that he was removed to another, where his career 
seemed also unpromising, and where the greatest advantage 
he derived was that of becoming known to Du Bellay, who 
afterwards became bishop of Paris, and continued his steady 
friend. From school, Rabelais passed into a convent of the 
order of St. Francis in Poitou, and now began to devote him- 

Et syavez-vous, sire, comment je paye? 
Nul ne le sgait, si premier ne Tessaye. 
Vous me devrez, si je puis, de retour; 
Et vous feray encores un bon tour; 
A celle fin qu'il n'y ait faute nulle, 
Je vous feray une belle sedulle, 
A vous payer (sans usure il s'entend) 
Quand on verra tout le monde content; 
Ou, si voulez, a payer ce sera 
Quand vostre los et renom cessera. 

* His Biography is also given in Lardner*s Cabinet Cyclopedia, in the 
volume on Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France. A valuable 
article on bis works may bo found in the Foreign Quarterly Review, vol. 31. 



RABELAIS. 121 

self to study^ though under most unfavorable circumstances. 
The brethren among whom his lot was cast^ had no library, 
nor did they understand the use of one. Only some of them 
knew a little Latin ; while others, instead of a breviary, car- 
ried about a wine-flask which exactly resembled one. Rabe- 
lais became a distinguished preacher, and devoted the proceeds 
of his sermons and masses to provide himself with books. The 
animosity of the brethren was excited; they were jealous of 
his superior attainments and his success as a pulpit orator; but 
his crying sin was the study of Greek literature, which they 
denounced as unholy and profane. After annoying and 
harassing him in various ways, they condemned him to live 
in pace — that is, to linger out the remainder of his life in one 
of the prison-cells of the convent, with bread and water for 
his only sustenance, and himself as his sole companion. The 
immediate occasion of his being thus buried alive is variously 
stated. According to some, the young priest had, by way of 
frolic, disfigured the image of St. Francis ; while others have 
it, that, on the festival of this saint, he removed the image, 
and himself took its place ; that he escaped detection till the 
grotesque devotions of the multitude and the rogueries of the 
monks overcame his gravity; and the simple people, seeing 
the muscles of the face relaxing, cried out '' A miracle V^ while 
the monks, who perceived the real state of the case, dismissed 
the laity, made their false brother descend from his niche, 
scourged him severely, and doomed him to solitary confinement 
for life. Fortunately for the poor wretch, his talents and 
attainments had gained for him friends who were powerful 
enough not only to procure his release, but a license from the 
pope to pass from the outraged order of St. Francis to that of 
the Benedictines, which was distinguished for learning, and 
which merits the gratitude of posterity for its labors in pre- 
serving the classic remains of antiquity. Doubtless it was to 
poor Rabelais a change for the better ; but being entirely di?- 
11 



122 FRENCH Lll'ERATURE. 

gusted witli monastic life, lie presently cast off the frock and 
cowl, without license or dispensation, forsook the convent, and 
took to a wandering life as a secular priest. Next, he wholly 
divested himself of the sacerdotal character, and studied medi- 
cine at Montpellier, where he took the successive degrees of 
bachelor, licentiate, and doctor. After some time, he was 
appointed a professor, and lectured on the works of Hippo- 
crates and Gsilen ; his superior knowlege of Greek enabling 
him to correct the omissions, falsifications, and interpolations 
of former translators, while he carefully collated the best copies 
of the original. Speaking of mistranslation, he says : '' If this 
be a fault in other books, it is a crime in books of medicine ; 
for in these the addition or omission of the smallest word, even 
the misplacing of a point, may endanger the lives of thou- 
sands.^' Accordingly his edition of Hippocrates has always 
been in high repute among physicians and scholars. 

It was a still more formidable difficulty to introduce the 
better medical system of the Greek into actual use. Mounte- 
banks and astrologers, he avers, were preferred to well-informed 
physicians, even by the great; while the multitude was plunged 
in worse than Cimmerian darkness, clinging to ignorance and 
absurdity, like those shipwrecked mariners who hold on by a 
beam or a rag of the shattered vessel, instead of making an 
effort to swim, and find out their mistake only when they are 
sinking without hope. 

From about the year 1534, Rabelais was in the immediate 
service of Cardinal du Bellay, and a prime favorite in the court 
circles of Paris and Rome, to which he was thus introduced. 
It was probably during this period, including seventeen or 
eighteen years, that he published, at various times, the suc- 
cessive parts of the work on which his popular fame has rested 
— the lives of Gar<janfua and Pantagrucl. It consists of 
the life and adventures of these two gigantic heroes, who were 
father and son, with the waggeries and practical jokes of 



RABELAIS. 123 

Panurge their jongleur, and the blasphemies and obscenities 
of the redoubtable Friar John — a fighting, swaggering, drink- 
ing monk. With these are mingled dissertations, argumenta- 
tions, sophistries, and allegorical satires in abundance. That 
peculiar state of mind which was undermining institutions and 
creeds in all parts of Europe; that zeal for antique study, 
which looked on Gothic traditions with contempt, and viewed 
the revival of Greek and Roman literature as the dawn of a 
new and glorious day ; that disgust at prejudice, and that thirst 
for something that would satisfy reason — all are reflected here, 
but refracted too, by the fantasy of the author, into a thousand 
grotesque apparitions, distorted, indeed, but significant. 

The publication of the work created a perfect uproar at the 
Sorbonne, and among the monks, who were its principal vic- 
tims. But the cardinals enjoyed its humor, and contrived to 
protect the author; while the king himself (Francis I.) being 
applied to, to seal its condemnation, had it read through to him, 
and pronounced it innocent and ^'' delectable.'^ It became the 
book of the day; no one making any pretensions to be a gen- 
tleman could be ignorant of it; it passed through countless 
editions, numerous purgations, and endless commentaries ; 
more than one translation was made into English, and an allu- 
sion in Shakspeare leads us to believe it was familiar in Eng- 
land. And yet it is agreed on all hands, that there exists 
not another work, admitted as literature, that will bear a mo- 
ment's comparison with it for indecency and profanity; while, 
at the same time, its coarseness is sheerly disgusting and repul- 
sive, rather than of a nature to stimulate the passions, or gratify 
the vicious tastes of the voluptuary. Few can now study it 
in the original, on account of its antique and provincial lan- 
gu ge r^ none have any excuse for reading a translation. In- 

* The following is a specimen : — " Epitherses, navigant de Grece .en 
Italie, dedans une nauf chargee de diverses marchandises et plusieiirs voy- 
agers, sur le soir cessant le vent aupres des Isles Echinades, lesquelles sont 



124 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

deed, it would appear tliere is no great temptation ; he whose 
taste for the humorous has been formed by the London Cha- 
rivari School of the present day, has not patience to wade 
through the heavy dissertations, and search through the filth 
of Rabelais, to enjoy here and there a dash of humor of a 
species quite out of date. His work is now only a curiosity 
and a collection of historical symbols for the student of antique 
literature. '^ Time was,'' says an eminent critic, " when all 
Europe could roar lustily at the drolleries of Rabelais ; now, 
it is a labor to read him, and the roar has dwindled down to 
the smile of the scholar. It is well that it is so. The name 
of Rabelais does not perish, but the book recedes from the 
gaze of all but those who have a right to peruse it.'' 

The satires of Rabelais, unlike those of preceding ages, 
bore hard on the ecclesiastical system itself, and not merely on 
the vices of those who maintained it. Hence the religious 
reformers of the day hoped for a time that he would prove a 
powerful agent in the great work which they had undertaken. 
Calvin, especially, calculated on drawing largely upon this 
treasury of learning, and wit, and sarcasm, for the overthrow 
of the Romish Church. But it was ere long discovered that 
Rabelais was a mere scoffer, not a reformer ; that he could aim 
a sly blow at the hypocritical Calvinists, as he chose to call 

entre la Moree et Tunis, fut leur nanf portee pres de Paxes. Estant la 
abbordee, aucuns des voyagers dormans, autres Teillans, autres bevans et 
souppans, fut de Flsle de Paxes ouie une voix de quelqu*un qui hautement 
appelloit Tharaous : auquel cri tous furent espouvantes. Cettui Thamoua 
estoit leur pilot natif d'Egypte, mais non connu de nom, fors a quelques 
uns des voyagers. Fut secondement ouie cette voix : laquelle appelloit 
Thamous en oris horrifiques. Personne ne respondant, mais tous restant 
en silence et trepidation, en tierce fois cette voix fut ouie plus terrible que 
devant. Dont avint que Thamous respondit : Je suis ici, que me demandes 
tu? que veux tu que je fasse ? Lors fut icelle voix plus hautement ouie, lui 
disant et commandant, quand il seroit en Palodes, publier et dire que Pan 
le grand dieu estoit mort." 



CALVIN. 125 

them ; and that lie was content to revel on the temporal things 
of the church whose spmtual things he exposed to ridicule. 

It is undoubted that Rabelais was not only a humorist on 
paper, but a bon-vivant and a practical joker, like our own 
Dean Swift, who has been largely indebted to him. Yet it 
does not appear that his personal habits were more than usually 
profligate. His kind patron procured for him in his old age 
the ciire or rectory of Meudon,. where he is said to have lived 
in a most exemplary manner, spending much of his time in 
teaching the poor to read and the children to sing. He is 
believed to have been about seventy years of age when he died 
in 1553. 

As Rabelais was the leading type of La Renaissanqe, so was 
Calvin* of La Reforme. 

This celebrated reformer, born at Noyon, in Picardy (1509- 
1564), was the son of a cooper, and educated for the priest- 
hood of the Romish Church ; which career, however, he early 
abandoned for jurisprudence, and studied at Bourges under 
the famous Alciati.t Having connexions among the followers 
of Luther, he became acquainted with his principles of reli- 
gious reform, and not only embraced them, but went consider- 
ably further in his views. In 1532, he began to propagate 
his doctrines in Paris, but finding himself in danger of impri- 
sonment, he quitted France, and passed the remainder of his 
life at Geneva, where he organized a church according to his 
own views, and ruled with a rod of iron in matters of faith 
and church government. Here, in 1535, he published in Latin 
his Institutes of the Christian Religion, which is an exposi- 
tion of the reformed faith as held by him, and which being 
afterwards translated by himself into French, became the 
standard of Protestantism in this lanouas^e. This well-known 



* See Henry's Life of Calvin. 
t See Italian Literature^ page 232. 
11* 



126 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

work is distinguished for great severity of doctrine, embracing 
especially that of the absolute election of a certain number of 
individuals to eternal salvation, and the equally unconditional 
reprobation of the remainder of the human race. The epistle 
dedicatory to Francis I., with which this work is prefaced, is 
considered a model of eloquence."^ After the Institutes, the 
most celebrated work of Calvin, also written by himself in 
French as well as Latin, is a Commentary on the Scriptures^ 
which is highly valued by many who do not fully subscribe to 
the doctrines of the Institutes. 

Intellect continued to struggle with its fetters ; and while 
the reformers, resting on the written word, pursued their 
perilous labors, and Kamus, with great circumspection, elevated 
the statue of Plato beside that of Aristotle, the note which 
Rabelais had sounded did not fall to the ground. Many there 
were who saw like him through the corruptions of the Romish 
Church, and mistrusted the whole system of ecclesiastical 

* Here is a part of it ; — ^' Au commencement que je m'appliquay ^ escrire 
ce present livre, je ne pensoye rien'moins, Sire {Francois I^^), que d^escriro 
choses qui fussent pr6sentees a vostre Majeste. Seulement mon propos 
estoit cVenseigner quelques rudiments, par lesquels ceux qui seroient touchez 
d'aucune bonne affection de Dieu, fussent instruits a vraye piet6. . . . 
Laquelle mienne deliberation on pourra facilement appercevoir du livre ; 
en tant que Tay accommode a la plus simple forme d*enseigner qu'il m'a 
este possible. Mais voyant que la fureur d'aucuns iniques s'estoit tant 
elevee en vostre royaume, qu'elle n'avoit laisse lieu aucun a toute saine 
doctrine : il m'a semble estre expedient de faire servir ce present livre tant 
d'instruction a ceux que premierement j*avoye delibere d'enseigner, que 
aussi de confession de foy envers vous: dont vous cognoissiez quelle est la 
doctrine centre laquelle, d'une telle rage, furieusement sont enflambez ceux 
qui par feu et par glaive troublent aujourd'hui votre roj^aume. 

"Or, c'est vostre oflSce, Sire, de ne destourner ne voz oreilles, ne vostre 
courage {coeur) d'une si juste defense, principalement quand il est question 
do si grande chose. C'est a savoir comment la gloire de Dieu sera main- 
tenuo sur torre, comment sa veritc retiendra son honneur et dignite; com- 
ment le regno du Christ demeurera en son entier. matiere digne de voz 
oreilles, digne de vostre jurisdiction, digne de vostre throsne royal?" 



MONTAIGNE. 127 

polity as by law establislied, yet did not pin tbeir faith on the 
dicta of the austere and haughty Calvin. The almost inevita- 
ble consequence was the no-creed of the freethinker — a wide 
and universal scepticism replacing the former implicit subjec- 
tion to rampant dogmatism. 

The most eminent type of this school was Montaigne^ who, 
in those confessions and conversations which he was pleased 
to call Essays, shook the foundations of all the creeds of his 
day, without offering anything to replace them. 

Montaigne is considered the earliest philosophical writer in 
French prose ; the first of those who contributed^ in the be- 
ginning of the seventeenth century, to direct the minds of 
their countrymen to the study of human nature. In doing 
so, he takes himself as his subject; he dissects all his feelings, 
emotions, and tendencies, with the coolness and unconcern of 
an operating surgeon, and treats his readers to a lecture there- 
upon. Here is nothing fantastic, as in Eabelais, or polemic, 
as in Calvin; but a calm and serious analysis of his own early 
education, and the subsequent development of his intellectual 
and moral character. The consequence is, that nobody can read 
his works without becoming his most familiar acquaintance. 
And to a singular power of self-investigation, and an acute 
observation of the actions of men, he added great afi^uence of 
thought and excursiveness of fancy, so as to be commonly con- 
sidered a most attractive writer, notwithstanding the egotism 
which is so generally offensive in an essayist. It must be 
added, that as he would have considered it unmanly and dis- 
honest to conceal anything about himself, he has told much 
that our modern ideas of decorum would deem better untold, 
and thus rendered his works unfit for a family library. It has 
been thought that they might be purified from these blemishes, 
and that a well-executed Spirit of Montaigne would be a most 
fascinating book. An attemnt of the kind in French was not 



128 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

successful ; and in tlie absence of even an attempt at it in Eng- 
lish, we offer the reader a cursory glance of the least excep- 
tionable parts, premising, however, that nothing but the veri- 
table language of the old confabulator can convey an adequate 
idea of his vivacity, energy, and pleasing simplicity. 

Montaigne's four volumes of Essays are, as we have inti- 
mated, principally occupied with personal narrative, and dis- 
quisitions on his own character, which run thus : — He was the 
eldest of the five sons of the Seigneur de Montaigne, and born 
at the family castle in 1533. The father's anxiety to bestow 
upon him the best possible education, induced him, even before 
the birth of the child, to study the subject, and call in to his 
help the most learned men to whom he had access. He was 
thus led to frame a system, which has been considered in some 
sort the basis of Rousseau's ; its leading principle being, that 
the soul is to be nourished in gentleness and liberty, without 
severity or restraint, and that knowledge is to be acquired by 
free-will, and not forced upon the youthful student. '' Accord- 
ingly, the good father whom God gave me,'^ says Montaigne, 
^' sent me, while in my cradle, to one of his poor villages, and 
kept me there while I was at nurse, and longer, to inure me 
to the hardest and most ordinary habits of life. He had 
another idea, also, which was, that I should early form alliance 
with that class of men who need our assistance, and should 
rather cultivate the affections of those who should stretch out 
their arms to me, than of those who would turn their backs. 
He therefore selected people of the lowest condition for my 
baptismal sponsors, that I might attach myself to them." 
Another principle was, that from his infancy he should never 
be allowed to play at anything in which trickery or artifice 
was employed, in order that he might learn perfect uprightness 
of conduct. Having understood that a child's brain is apt to 
be injured by awaking suddenly, the father employed a musi- 
cian constantly to attend upon the infant with the soft sounds 



MONTAIGNE. 129 

of music as he awoke. Desiring tliat his son should not suffer 
the usual harassment incident to the learning of ancient 
languages, the elder Montaigne determined that Latin should 
be as his son^s mother-tongue — that which he should first learn 
instead of the vernacular; and, accordingly, he engaged the 
services of a German who was a good Latin scholar, and under- 
stood no French. This man, assisted by two others of some- 
what less erudition, performed all the functions usually allotted n 
to a nursery-maid, carrying the child about, and talking to him 
in the language of Cicero. It was the rule of the house that 
nothing else should be spoken in his hearing; ^^and it was 
strange,^^ says our author, ^^what progress every one made. 
My father and mother acquired enough of Latin to speak it 
occasionally, as did also the other servants, who were fond of 
me. In short, we talked so much Latin, that it overflowed 
from the castle into the villages around, where there still 
remain firmly rooted several Latin names for workmen and 
their tools. At the age of six I knew no more French than 
Arabic ; and without study, book, grammar, or tuition, without 
a rod, and without a tear, I had learned as pure a Latin as the 
schoolmaster could teach, for I had no other language to cor- 
rupt it with/^ It was intended that he should learn Greek as 
a game ; and the rest may be judged from this specimen. But 
according to his own account, the young Montaigne was an 
unlikely subject, ^^for,'^ says he, ^' though my health was good, 
and my disposition docile and gentle, I was, at the same time, 
so heavy and dull and sleepy, that I could not be aroused, even 
to play. Beneath this dull exterior, however, I nourished a 
bold imagination ; I saw well what I saw, and formed opinions 
beyond my age.* My mind was slow, never moving unless it 
was led ; my understanding tardy, my inventive faculties in- 



■* He here gives the first hint of that scepticism which is more fully 
developed in the sequel of the work. 



130 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

dolent ; and, above all^ I had an incredible want of memory. 
Now the good old man began to fear lest the scheme he had so 
carefully projected was going to prove a failure in practice; 
and as all those who are furiously eager for a cure allow them- 
selves to be swayed by all manner of advice, he thought it 
safest to yield to the prevailing opinion, and sent me at six 
years of age to a public school, selecting that of Guienne, as 
the best in France, and sparing no pains to procure the most 
accomplished private tutors. Here my Latin deteriorated, and 
I lost the habit of speaking it ; but I read Ovid's Metamor- 
piloses, and other Latin classics, with avidity, at seven or eight 
years of age, my master conniving at it, and being perfectly 
easy as to the preparation of the other lessons that were pre- 
scribed to me. No one feared that I should do any harm, but 
only that I should do nothing ; no one anticipated that I should 
become wicked, but it was apprehended that I might be use- 
less. Meanwhile, my mind continued its private operations, 
and formed independent opinions on various subjects, digesting 
them alone, and without participation.^' 

The most obvious results of this education seem to have been, 
that the defective memory continued defective throughout life. 
His personal indolence remained, but in connexion with much 
ardor of mind, a lively imagination, an inquiring disposition, a 
cheerful, though somewhat unequal temper, and great enthu- 
siasm of affection where he formed an attachment. Though 
he lived at a time when party-spirit ran high, he kept himself 
aloof from the dissensions that were abroad, and -his life was a 
thing singularly apart from the events of the age in which he 
lived. The event to which he himself gives most prominence 
is his friendship for Etienne de la Boetie, whom he considered 
the greatest man he had ever known.* Though in some re- 



- En ramitie de quoy ic parle, elles (Ics dmes) se meslent et confondent 
Tune en Taultre d'un meslange si universel, qu'elles effacent et ne retrou- 



MONTAIGNE. 131 

spects very dissimilar characters^ they formed an attachment 
for each other upon mere hearsay, before they had an oppor- 
tunity of meeting. '' We, as it were, embraced each other's 
names, and at our first meeting, which was by chance and in a 
large asseiiibly, we found ourselves so drawn together, and so 
known to each other, that hereafter nothing was nearer than 
we were to one another/^ After the lapse of four ^^ears, a 
short severe illness deprived Montaigne of his beloved friend^ 
and he seems never to have forgotten the loss. " If I com- 
pare the rest of my life/' he says, " though, with the blessing 
of God, I have passed it agreeably and peacefully, having taken 
the good things that came to me spontaneously and naturally, 
without seeking others; yet if I compare the whole of it, I 
say, with the four years during which it was given me to enjoy 
the dear society of this person, it is mere smoke — it is a dark 
and wearisome night. I have dragged it out painfully since I 
lost him, and the very pleasures that have presented themselves 
have doubled the sense of my loss instead of proving any con- 
solation. We used to share everything, and me thinks I rob 
him of his portion. I was so accustomed to be two in every- 
thing, that I now seem but half of myself.^' 

A few years afterwards — that is, at the age of thirty-three — 
Montaigne married, but not, as it appears, from any decided 
wish to do so, or choice of a partner from particular attach- 

vent plus la coustiire qui les a ioinctes. Si on me presse de dire pourquoy 
je Taymoys {La Boetie), ie sens que cela ne se peult exprimer qu'en respon- 
dant: '^Parce que c'estoit luy, parce que c'estoit moy." II y a, au dela de 
tout men discours et de tout ce que i'en puis dire particulierement, ie ne 
SQais quelle force inexplicable et fatale, mediatrice de cette union. Nous 
nous cherchions avant que de nous estre veus, et par des rapports que nous 
oyions I'un de Taultre, qui faisoyent en notre affection plus d'effort que ne 
porte la raison des rapports ; ie croys par quelque ordonnance du ciel. 
Nous nous embrassions par nos noms : et a nostre premiere rencontre, qui 
feust par hazard en une grande feste et compaignie de ville, nous nous trou- 
vasmes si prins, si cogneus, si obligez entre nous, que rien dez lors ne nous 
feut si proche que I'un a I'auUre. 



132 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

ment. He was simply led by the common usage of the world 
around him^ his easy temper borne along by extraneous cir- 
cumstances. On trial^ he became noway reconciled to wedded 
life, but he says he conducted himself better than he expected. 
'' A man may, with prudence, retain his liberty ) but when he 
has once entered on the obligation, he must observe the laws 
of a common duty." Montaigne seems to have made a good, 
though not remarkably fond husband and father ; and while 
he did his duty in these relations, it appears that he mani- 
fested his superior predilection for ties of his own formation, 
by adopting as a daughter a young lady of great merit, who 
was afterwards esteemed one of the most learned and estimable 
women of the age. 

Montaigne had been intended for the bar, and had studied 
law after leaving college ; but he disliked and abandoned it, 
as he did the office of counsellor to the parliament of Bor- 
deaux, which he found unsuitable to his tastes. He inherited 
the estates of Montaigne at his father's death, and lived scru- 
pulously within his patrimonial income, as the surest way of 
enjoying the ease which he loved, and freedom from distract- 
ing care. 

During his whole life, France was distracted with the strug- 
gles between the Roman Catholics and the Huguenots. Mon- 
taigne, though attached to the kingly and Catholic party, 
avoided taking any active share in the conflict ; and almost 
the only apparent connexion between his life and his times, 
is found in the comparative tranquillity which he enjoyed 
while most others of similar rank were compelled, or believed 
themselves compelled, to expose both life and property for the 
creed which they avowed. ^^ I regard our king," he says, 
^' with a mere legitimate and political affection, neither attracted 
nor repelled by private interest, and in this I am satisfied with 
myself. In the same way, I am but moderately attached to 
the popular cause, and am not apt to surrender myself in a 



MONTAIGNE. 133 

deep-felt and enthusiastic manner to matters of opinion. Let 
Montaigne^ if it must, be swallowed up in the public ruin; 
yet, if there is no necessity, I shall be thankful to fortune to 
save it. I treat both parties equally, and say nothing to one 
that I could not say to the other ; only with the accent a little 
changed, for there is no consideration of expediency that could 
induce me to tell a falsehood. '^ Of course he had to suffer the 
usual inconvenience of moderation during such troubles — that 
of being considered fair game to both parties. Yet his philo- 
sophy did something for him here. His mode of preserving 
his castle from pillage was highly characteristic. ^^ Defence/' 
he says, '^ stimulates to enterprise, and intimidation to injury. 
I damped the ardor of the soldiery by making the conquest of 
my house a thing that might be achieved without risk or mili- 
tary glory, for what is done with danger is always honorable 
during a time when the course of justice is suspended. My 
door was shut against no one who knocked ; it had no guard 
but a porter, according to ancient usage — a ceremony not 
serving so much to defend my abode, as to offer an easier and 
more courteous entrance. I had no sentinel but that which 
the stars kept for me. A gentleman does wrong to appear in 
a state of defence if he is not perfectly so. I was resolved 
neither to fear nor to save myself by halves. Among so many 
armed houses, I alone, in France, I believe, confided mine to 
the protection of Heaven only, and have never removed either 
money or plate, or title-deed or tapestry. If unreserved grati- 
tude can secure the divine favor, I shall enjoy it to the end; 
if not, I have gone on long enough to render my escape re- 
markable : it has lasted now thirty years. ^' He gives an inte- 
resting account of an instance in which he was saved by this 
philosophy. A certain gentleman, who was his neighbor, but 
a leader of the opposite party, had laid a plan of taking Mon- 
taigne Castle by surprise; he rode up to the gate in apparent 
hurry and dismay, and implored admission, saying that he was 
12 



134 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

pursued by enemies, and incapable of defence, having been 
separated from bis party, who, he apprehended, had been 
either slain or taken prisoners. Montaigne received and 
endeavored to comfort him. Presently five or six more pre- 
sented themselves, with the same appearance of terror; and 
soon more and more, till there were about thirty, well armed 
and equipped, but pretending that they were in imminent 
danger, and required shelter. When Montaigne's suspicions 
were awakened, he deemed it best to go on as he had begun, 
and ordered them all to be admitted, ^' being,'' says he, '' a man 
who gladly commits himself to fortune, and believing that we 
err in not fully confiding in Heaven." His frankness and 
composure disarmed the treachery of the leader, as he himself 
afterwards confessed ; he remounted his horse, and departed, 
to the no small astonishment of his followers, who were watch- 
ing for the signal to fall upon the host and take possession of 
the place. 

As he advanced in years, Montaigne became the subject of 
a painful disease, which put his philosophy to the test ] and 
having derived from his father a sovereign contempt for phy- 
sicians, he would use no remedy except that which nature had 
provided in the mineral and thermal springs found in various 
parts of the continent. He accordingly undertook a tour 
through Switzerland, Germany, and Italy, performing it chiefly 
on horseback, in company with a few friends, while the lug- 
gage was carried in hired vehicles. His mode of travelling 
was of a piece with all the rest that he tells of himself. If 
the road to the right hand was bad, he took that to the left; 
if he felt too ill to ride, he remained where he was until he 
recovered; if he found that he had passed anything that he 
wished to see, he turned back. His friends, it is true, did 
not altogether relish these zigzag proceedings, but his only 
reply to their remonstrances was, that he was bound to no place 
but that which now held him ; that 4ie could not go out of his 



MONTAIGNE. 135 

way, since his only object was to visit new scenes; and that, 
so long as lie never travelled the same road or visited the same 
spot twice, his design was fulfilled. His mind was ever on 
the stretch to discover novelties and converse with strangers ; 
and this excitement enabled him to a great extent to forget 
his sufferings. After above five months^ travelling, the party 
found themselves in Rome, where Montaigne rambled about 
without a guide, endeavoring to discover the localities with 
which his early studies had rendered him familiar. He was 
cordially received by the pope, who was glad to have a man 
of rank and talent on the side of the old religion in those days 
of defalcation. The censors of the press had found several 
faults in the two books of Montaigne's Essays that were 
already published — such as, his citations from heretical poets; 
his improper use of the word '^ fortune f^ his disapproval of 
torture and capital punishments. And Montaigne, being taken 
to account, simply replied that he had put these things down 
as his own opinions, not supposing them to be erroneous ; and 
that he apprehended the censor had not always rightly under- 
stood what he meant to convey. The pope now begged that 
he would not make himself uneasy about the matter, assured 
him there was no doubt of the goodness of his intentions, and 
his attachment to the true church; and that he could make 
any needful alterations in a future edition. The citizenship 
of Rome was conferred upon him by a papal bull, resplendent 
with seals and golden letters, and he was implored to exert his 
eloquence on the side of the holy apostolic church against its 
numerous and powerful foes. 

Montaigne's return home was hastened by the intelligence 
that he had been elected mayor of Bordeaux ; an office which 
he would gladly have declined, being, as he declared, without 
memory, without industry, without experience, and without 
vigor; without party-spirit, also, or ambition, or avarice, or 
capability of violence. But the king interposing his command, 



136 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

he felt obliged to undertake tlie office ; and tlie laissez-faire 
system, which was the result of his negative merits, seems to 
have worked well, as he was re-elected when the first term of 
his office expired. 

Towards the close of life he was a great sufferer ; but his 
calm philosophy and presence of mind never forsook him. He 
is said to have risen from his bed during his last illness, and 
opening his cabinet, to have paid his servants and other lega- 
tees the sums specified in his will, apprehending that his heirs 
might raise difficulties on the subject. Feeliug his end ap- 
proaching, he sent for some gentlemen in the neighborhood to 
be with him in his last moments. On their arrival, he caused 
mass to be celebrated in his chamber ; at the moment of the 
elevation, he attempted to raise himself, but fell back fainting, 
and thus expired, on the 13th of September, 1592, in the six- 
tieth year of his age.* 

Charron, who was the friend and disciple of Montaigne, 
was at least as bold a thinker, but inferior as a writer. In his 
book, De la Sagesse, he endeavored to show that human nature 
contains within itself the means of curing its own evils with- 
out the help of religion, which he treats as though it were a 
matter of mere speculation — a system of dogmas without 
practical influence. Others followed in the same steps, and 
affected, like him, to place scepticism at the service of good 
morals, if not of religion itself. ^^ License,'^ says Vinet, ^^had 
to come before liberty; scepticism before philosophic inquiry; 
the school of Montaigne before that of Descartes.^' On the 
other hand, St. Francois de Sales., in his Introduction a la 
Vie Devote J taught that Christianity was a practical thing, and 
that the only cure for all the evils of human nature was to be 
found in the grace which it reveals. Entering into details 

* Sco Emerson's Rcprcscntativo Men, and Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopediar 



SATIRE MENIPPEE. 137 

with a delicacy unknown to Montaigne and Cliarron, he teaches 
how this remedy is to be sought and applied; what each indi- 
vidual, in short, ought to observe, in order to lead a Christian 
life in his own sphere. 

In these struggles of thought, in this conflict of creeds, the 
language acquired vigor and precision, so that the functions 
of the Latin were gradually transferred to the vernacular. In 
the works of Calvin, it had appeared in a seriousness of tone 
and severe purity of style which commanded general respect. 
In the Satire Menippee,'^ it had exhibited both vigor and 
flexibility, proving here, as in the writings of the stern 
reformer, how much a language gains by plunging into the 
solemnities of religious conviction, laboring in the sphere of 
tangible interests, and mingling in the dust of public contro- 



* An anonymous political satire, in which the leading personages in the 
state are represented as meeting for consultation, and confidentially avowing 
the motives which have induced them to support the league. The follow- 
ing is a specimen of its style : — '* II faut confesser que nous sommes pris a 
ce coup, plus serfs et plus esclaves que les chrestiens en Turquie et les juifs 
en Avignon. Nous n'avons plus de volont6, ni de voix au chapitre. Nous 
n'avons plus rien de propre que nous puissions dire cela est mien ; tout est 
a vous, Messieurs, qui nous tenez le pied sur la gorge et qui remplissez nos 
maisons de garnisons. Nos privileges et franchises anciennes sont a 
vauFeau : notre hostel de ville que j*ai veu estre Fasseur6 refuge du secours 
des roys en leurs urgentes affaires, est a la boucherie : nostre cour de par- 
lement est nulle : nostre Sorbonne est au bourdel, et Funiversite devenue 
sauvage. Mais Fextremite de nos miseres est, qu'entre tant de malheurs et 
de necessitez, il ne nous est pas permis de nous plaindre, ny demander 
secours: et faut qu'ayants la mort entre les dents, nous disions que nous 
nous portons bien, et que sommes trop heureux d'estre malheureux pour si 
bonne cause. Paris qui n'est plus Paris, mais une spelunque de betes 
farouches, une citadelle d'Espagnols, Wallons, et Neapolitains, un asyle et 
seure rotraicte de voleurs, meurtriers et assassinateurs, ne veux-tu jamais 
te ressentir de ta dignite et te souvenir qui tu as este, au prix de ce que tu 
es? ne veux-tu jamais te guarir de ceste frenesie qui pour un legitime et 
gratieux roy, t'a engendre cinquante roytelets et cinquante tyrans ?" 



138 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

■versy. An easy and natural tone was imparted to it about 
the same time by Amyot,* professor of Greek and Latin at 
the University of Paris. He enriched the literature of France 
with elegant translations from Plutarch, Longus, and Helio- 
dorus, in which he taught his vernacular to mingle Hellenic 
graces with those strictly French. But the poets led it away 
from this happy vein, and we must glance at their labors. 

'^- Born 1513, died 1593. The followiDg passage is extracted from his 
works : "II estoit ia sur le seoir quand il (Coriolan) y arriva {d Antium), 
et y eut plusieurs gens qui le rencontrerent par les rues, mais personne 
ne le recogneut. Ainsi s'en alia il droit a la maison de Tullus, la oil 
de primsault il entra iusques au fouyer, et illec s*asseit sans dire mot 
a personne, aiant le uisage couuert et la teste affublee : de quoy ceulx 
de la maison f urent bien esbahis, et neantmoins ne I'ozerent faire leuer ; car 
encore qu'il se cachast, si recognoissoit on ne sgays quoy de dignite en sa 
contenance et en son silence, et s'en allerent dire ^ Tullus qui souppoit, 
ceste estrange fa§on de faire. Tullus se leua incontinent de table, et s'en 
allant deuers luy, luy demanda qui il estoit, et quelle chose il demandoit. 
Alors Martins se debouscha, et apres auoir demoure un peu de temps sans 
respondre, luy dit : " Si tu ne me cognois point encore, Tullus, et ne crois 
point a me veoir, que ie sois celuy que ie suis, il est force que ie me decelle, 
et me descouure moy mesme. Je suis Gaius Martins, qui ay fait et a toy en 
particulier, et a tons les Volsques en general, beaucoup de maulx, lesquelz ie 
ne puis nier pour le surnom de Coriolanus que i'en porte : car ie n'ay recueilly 
autre fruict, ny autre recompense de tant de trauaux que i'ay endure z, ny de 
tant de dangers ausquelz ie me suis expos6, que ce surnom, lequel tesmoigne 
la malueillance que uous deuez auoir encontre moy : il ne m'est demoure que 
cela seulement; tout le reste m'a este oste par Tenuie et Toultrage du 
peuple romain, et par la laschete de la noblesse et des magistrats, qui m'ont 
abandonne, et m'ont souffert de chasser en exil, de maniere que i'ay est6 
contraint de recourir comme humble suppliant a ton fouyer, non ia pour 
sauuer et asseurer ma uie, mais pour le desir que i'ay de me venger de ceulx 
qui m'ont ainsi chasse, ce que ie commence desia a faire, en mettant ma 
personne cntre tes mains." 



RONSARD. 139 



YII._LIGHT LITEEATUUE. 

RONSARD — HARDY — REGXIER — MALHERBE — BALZAC — YOITURE — MALLE- 
VILLE — SCARRON — THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET — THE FRENCH ACADEMY. 

RoNSARD (1524-1585), the favorite poet of Maiy* Queen 
of Scots, flourished during the time that the rage for ancient 
literature was at its height. He traced the first outlines of 
modern French poetry, filling it with mythological allusions, 
and a higher style of poetical thought and feeling than had 
hitherto been known. This revolution cannot be so well un- 
derstood by any explanation, as by a comparison of a few verses 
of his with some of Marot's on a similar subject. 

Marot sang thus : — 

Sur le prin temps de ma jeunesse folle, 
Je ressemblois I'arondelle qui vole 
Puis ca, puis la : I'aage me conduisoit 
Sans peur ne soin, oil le coeur me disoit, 
En la forest, sans la crainte des loups, 
Je m'en allois souvent cueillir le houx, 
Pour faire glus a prendre oyseaux ramages 
Tous differents de chantz et de plumages ; 
Ou me souloys, pour les prendre, entremettre 
A faire bries ou caiges pour les mettre : 
Ou transnouois les rivieres profondes, 
Ou renfor9ois sur le genouil les fondes ; 
Puis d'en tirer droict et loin j'apprenois 
Pour chasser loups et abattre des noix. 

* Mary found his poems a great solace during her imprisonment, and 
sent him a silver Parnassus with this inscription, 

*^ A Ronsard, TApollon de la source des Muses." 
Several of his poems are addressed to her. See one in Longfellow's Poets 
and Poetry of Europe, p. 447. Queen Elizabeth of England sent him a 
very valuable diamond in token of her admiration of his genius. Tasso 
felt honored by his acquaintance, and Montaigne thought him fully equal 
to the best ancient poets. 



140 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

But Ronsard thus : — 

Quand j'estois jeune, ains qu'une amour nouvelle 
Ne se fust prise en ma tendre moelle, 

Je vivois bien heureux. 
Comme a I'envy les plus accortes filles 
Se travailloient par leurs flammes gentilles, 

De me rendre amoureux. 

Mais tout ainsy qu'un beau poulain farouche 
Qui n'a mascbe le frein dedans sa boucbe, 

Va seulet, escarte, 
N'ayant soucy, sinon d'un pied superbe, 
A mille bonds, fouler les fleurs et I'herbe, 

Vivant en liberte ; 

Ores il court le long d'un beau rivage ; 
Ores il erre en quelque bois sauvage, 

Fuyant de saut en saut : 
De toutes part les poutres hennissantes 
Luy font I'amour, pour neant blandissantes, 

A luy qui ne s'en chaut. 

Ainsy j'allois desdaignant les pucelles 
Qu'on estimoit en beautes les plus belles, 

Sans repondre a leur vueil : 
Lors je vivois, amoureux de moi-meme, 
Content et gai, sans porter face blesme, 

Ny les larmes a I'oeiL 

J'avois escrite au plus haut de la face, 
Avecq' I'honneur une agreable audace, 

Pleine d'un franc desir : 
Avecq' le pied marchoit ma fantaisie 
Oil je voulois, sans peur ni jalousie, 

Seigneur de mon plaisir, etc. 

It is believed tliat France owes to Eonsard the first attempt 
at the ode and the heroic epic. In the former, notwithstand- 
ing many defects, he is considered as the herald of the Lyric 
Muse, having prepared the way for Malherbe, who is still 



RONSARD — HARDY. 141 

regarded as a model in this style. In the Franciad^ he was 
less happy, even as the precursor of abler writers; for no 
Frenchman has ever been deemed worthy of a place among 
the epic poets of Europe, in the category with Homer, Virgil, 
Tasso, Camoens, and Milton. 

But Ronsard, and the numerous school which he formed, 
were not content with imitating the spirit and form of the 
ancients— they wanted to have the language too. Proud of 
their discoveries in the field of ancient poetry, they would have 
them transplanted wholly into French verse ; and to this end 
they desired to have their own language subjected to combina- 
tions and inversions like those of G-reek and Latin. Foreign 
roots and locutions began to overpower the reviving flexibility 
of the French idiom ; and even Rabelais, the greatest enemy 
of this abuse, did not wholly escape the infection. ^^The 
riches of antiquity,^ ^ says Guizot, '' were heaped upon it (the 
French language) like the heterogeneous spoils of a pillaged 
province, rather than as the products of a friendly country, 
disposed to furnish us with whatever our necessities required. '' 

Under the same influence the drama was restored by Jo- 
DELLE and others, in the shape of translations and imitations. 
Towards the end of the century, however, there appeared a 
sort of reaction against this learned tragedy, led by Alexan- 
der Hardy, who, with little or no original genius, produced 
about 1200 plays. He borrowed in every possible direction ; 
imitated the Italian pastorals and the Spanish dramas ; mingled 
the choirs and messengers of the antique with the pantalons 
of the Italian and the metamores of the Spanish stage; but 
he awakened interest by a certain skill in conducting the plot. 
After twenty years, however, the general taste returned to the 
Greek and Roman school, and this rude miscellany of Hardy's 
was abandoned. 



142 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Poetry hardly returned to anything like freedom before 
Mathurin Regnier,* whose lively and original satiresf are 
among the finest monuments of that Gallic French which was 
too lightly esteemed by the precise school which followed. 

The glorious reign of Henry IV. had been succeeded by 
the stormy minority of Louis XIII., and shortly before tran- 
quillity was restored to the nation under the iron sceptre of 
Richelieu, Malherbe,J a tyrant of words and syllables, ap- 



^^ Born 1573, died 1613. 

f As the following : — 

Jadis un loup, dit-on, que la fain espoingonne, 
Sortant hors de son fort rencontre une lionno, 
Rugissante a Fabort, et qui monstroit aux dents 
L'insatiable faim qu'elle avoit au dedans, 
Furieuse elle approche ; et le loup qui Tadvise 
D'un langage flateur luy parle et la courtise ; 
Car ce fut de tout temps que, ployant sous Teffort, 
Le petit cede au grand, et le foible au plus fort, 
Luy dis-je, qui craignoit que, faute d'autre proye, 
La beste Fattaquast, ses ruses il employe. 
Mais enfin le hazard si bien le secourut, 
Qu'un mulct gros et gras a leurs j^eux apparut. 
lis cheminent dispos, croyant la table preste, 
Ut s'approchent tous deux assez pres de la beste. 
Le loup qui la cognoist, malin et deffiant, 
Luy regardant aux pieds, luy parloit en riant : 
D'o^ es-tu? Qui es-tu? quelle est ta nourriture, 
Ta race, ta maison, ton maistre, ta nature ? 
Le mulet, estonnne de ce nouveau discours, 
De peur ingenieux aux ruses eut recours; 
Et, comme les Normands, sans luy respondit: Voire! 
Compere, ce dit-il, je n'ay point de memoire; 
Et comme sans esprit ma grand'mere me vit, 
Sans m'cn dire autre chose, au pied me Tescrivit. 
Lors il leve la jambe au jarret ramassee, 
Et d'un oeil innocent il couvroit sa pens^e. 

J Born 1565, died 1628; having lived under six kings. 



MALHERBE — BALZAC. 143 

peared as the reformer of poetry. The court, now compara- 
tively undisturbed by political agitation, sought to fill the void 
which had long been occupied by public business, and became 
the arbiter of taste, to the superseding of a coterie of literary 
men, isolated from the world, and abandoned to the caprices 
of their own genius. Malherbe, a private gentleman of Rouen, 
attracted its attention by ridiculing the style of Ronsard ; he 
was at once invited to Paris, constituted its laureate, and con- 
tinually employed in furnishing for it that literature in which 
it was beginning to take delight. He exploded the affectation 
of Latin and Greek French, but inaugurated the extreme of 
formality in its stead. Everything in the matter of his verses 
was made subordinate to the manner. In striving after pre- 
cision, he sacrificed energy ; he forgot that the satisfaction of 
the ear is not the enlargement of the mind ; and that, in the 
exactitude of his language, he was risking the substitution of 
polish for native beauty, of mere effect for genuine feeling. 
"When he was reproached for not rendering accurately the 
sense of those authors whom he translated or paraphrased — 
for he had no invention of his own — he used to say, that he 
was not dressing meat for cooks. If he found a passage, 
either in an ancient Roman or modern Italian author, which 
he could throw into the shape of a pretty ode or sonnet to the 
satisfaction of the fashionables whom it was his business to 
please, it was little to him whether those who could read the 
originals were pleased or displeased. 

Balzac,* in his pompously frivolous epistles, used prose as 
Malherbe did verse, and a numerous school of the same cha- 
racter was speedily formed. Not only odes and sonnets, but 
rondos, ballads, and epigrams came into favor; and perhaps 
the finest compositions of a superior kind would not have done 

^' Born 1594, dkd 1654. 



144 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

SO mucli to diffuse a taste for books as this piecemeal literature 
— tliis small -cliange of wit and learning adapted for circulation 
imong a frivolous and slenderly-informed set of fashionable 
people. The works of Voiture* abound in the pleasantries 
and affected simplicity which best befit such compositions : the 
most trifling adventure^ the death of a cat or dog, was trans- 
formed into a poem, in which truly there was no spirit of poetry, 
but a certain graceful facility, which was considered perfectly 
charming. Then, as though native affectation were not enough, 
the borrowed wit of Italian Marinism, which had been eagerly 
adopted in Spain, made its way thence into France, with 
Spanish exaggeration superadded. A disciple of this school 
declares, that the eyes of his mistress are '' large as his grief, 
and black as his fate;'' while another relates an adventure 
which happened one evening, ^^ which, however, was not even- 
ing, but morning, since Auroraj smiled, and displayed white 
pearls in the midst of brilliant carnation'' — hyperboles these, 
which are scarcely tolerable as the offspring of the semi- 
oriental imagination of a Spaniard, and clothed in his sonorous 
language, bub surpassingly ridiculous when adopted by a 
Frenchman. However, they became familiar in the erotic 
poetry of the school at present under notice, and a large circle 
of fashionable critics was divided by serious disputes on the 
respective merits of the following sonnets by Voiture and 
Malleyille upon La Belle Matineuse : — 

VOITUKE. 

Des portes du matin Tamante de Cdpliale, 
Les roses epandoit par le milieu des airs, 
Et jetoit dans les cieux nouvellement ouverts 
Ces traits d'or et d'azur qu'en naissant elle ^tale, 

* Born 1598, died 1648. Both Balzac and Voiture were distinguished 
as letter writers. 

f Aurora was the assumed name of the young lady, according to a prac- 
tice explained, p. 197. 



VOITURE — MALLBVILLE. 145 

Quand la nymphe divine, a moa repos fatale, 
Apparut et brilla de tant de feux divers 
Qu'il sembloit qu'elle seule esclairoit Tunivers, 
Et remplissoit de feu la rive orientale. 

Le soleil, se hastant pour la gloire des cieux, 
Vint opposer sa flamme a I'^clat de ses yeux, 
Et prit tous les rayons dont I'Olympe se dore ; 

L'onde, la terre et Fair s'allumoient a Fentour, 
Mais aupres de Philis on le prit pour FAurore, 
Et Fon crut que Pkilis etoit Fastre du jour. 

MALLEVILLE. 

Le silence r^gnoit sur la terre et sur Fonde ; 
L'air devenoit serein et FOlympe vermeil, 
Et Famoureux Zephir, affranchi du somm^il, 
Ressuscitoit les fleurs d'une haleine feconde. 

L'Aurore d^ployoit For de sa tresse blonde, 
Et semoit de rubis le chemin du soleil ; 
Enfin ce Dieu venoit au plus grand appareil 
Qu'il soit jamais venu pour ^clairer le monde; 

Quand la jeune Philis, au visage riant, 
Sortant de son palais plus elair que F Orient, 
Fit voir une lumi^re et plus vive et plus bolle. 

Sacr^ flambeau du jour ! n'en soyez pas jaloux ; 

Vous parutes alors aussi peu devant elle 

Que les feus de la nuit avoient fait devant vous. 

But now tlie ladies and gentlemen of the court were not 
satisfied witli being amused by the professional poets : they 
were persuaded they could write poetry themselves. ^^ Here- 
by we learn ail the novelties of gallantry," says Moli^re, ^^ and 
the pretty exchanges ^of prose and verse that occur from day 
to day. We are told, as the news of the hour, that such a 
one has composed the prettiest piece in the world on such a 
subject; that such another has written words to such an air j 
13 



146 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

that this person has penned a madrigal upon an enjoyment, 
and that one, some stanzas on an infidelity ; that Mr. Such-a- 
one sent last night a sixain to Miss Such-a-one, and received 
an answer this morning- that one author has formed such a 
plan; that another is at the. third part of his romance; while 
a third is putting his work through the press. ^' '' This tend- 
ency/' says Guizot, ^^ was not the fermentation produced by 
the presence of any one superior genius of paramount and 
universal influence, nor did it result from the equal and natu- 
ral development of all the faculties of a free and ardent peo- 
ple. It was an intense but uncertain movement towards the 
light — an irresistible impulse to action without any determinate 
object.^^ 

Malherbe, and the school which he formed, fell afterwards 
into neglect, for fashionable caprice had turned its attention to 
burlesque, and every one believed himself capable of writing 
in this style, from the lords and ladies of the court down to 
the valets and maid-servants. The booksellers would publish 
none but burlesque poems, and there was actually printed a 
Passion de Noire Seigneur en vers hurlesques — a piece ^^bad 
enough,^' says Pelisson, ^^ and one whose title justly horrified 
those who read no more of it.^^ 

It may seem strange that an extravagant taste for burlesque 
should grow and flourish both in court and city side by side 
with the hyperbolic magnificence of Marinism. But, as Grui- 
zot has remarked, burlesque poetry, like bacchanalian, does 
not so usually originate among the lower classes of society, 
who are not familiar enough with lofty themes to know how 
to render them ridiculous. It was, in the first instance, the 
professional poets who were glad to escape from the restraints 
of elegant society, and to get together at the cabaret, to enjoy 
in excess that liberty which was not permitted elsewhere. It 
was such as Scarron, a man familiar with literary study — 
familiar, too, from choice with the lowest society, though ad- 



SCARRON. 147 

mitted to the liighest — it was he^ and such as he^ that intro- 
duced a style of which the pleasantry was increased by contrast 
with the delicate and finical taste that had been in vogue. 
Had men of taste been the arbiters of literary merit, Virgil 
Travestied might have been relished as an ephemeral farce, 
instead of becoming a standard work. But burlesque was 
adopted by the court circle with all the fervor of a new fash- 
ion, which, as long as it lasts, carries all before it. 

Such were the principal fashions that prevailed in light 
literature during the first half of the seventeenth century. 
Notwithstanding their diversity, we may recognise in them one 
general characteristic — the only one which belongs to them 
all ; and that is, the absence of true and serious feeling, and 
of that inspiration which is drawn from realities. Religious 
enthusiasm did not inspire the numerous versifiers who then 
translated or paraphrased the psalms ; love did not dictate one 
of the ten thousand sonnets, ballads, and madrigals which con- 
tinually repeated its name ; admiration of nature did not pro- 
duce a single piece that treated of natural objects. Whatever 
subject was chosen for verse, it was regarded merely as a jeu 
d' esprit — an occasion for combining more or less ingeniously 
words which were more or less harmonious, and ideas more or 
less pleasing. No one dreamed of looking into himself for his 
true feelings or desires, his hopes or his fears ; no one thought 
of examining the emotions of his heart, or the recollections of 
his life ; no one, in short, aimed at being a poet ; it was enough 
to be capable of making verses. In the productions of half a 
century, we find not a single piece truly elevated, energetic, or 
pathetic ; whence we may judge what were the views enter- 
tained at this time of the nature of poetry. Truth is, it was 
the age of artists in language, entirely occupied with polishing 
the instrument they employed, and regarding the diff'erent 
subjects which they treated as little more than so many varie- 
ties of experiment upon its capabilities. Doubtless it owes 



148 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

them something, and their labor was not wholly superfluous ; 
but it is to be remarked, that a language generally receives its 
highest improvement from those who use it only as means to an 
end— from men of genius who, discussing interesting subjects, 
and seeking to express great ideas, have almost involuntarily 
framed for themselves a style proportioned to the exigencies of 
their thoughts. It is from thought that language gains true 
elevation. 

It is during this time — that is, between the death of Henry 
IV. in 1610, and that of Richelieu in 1642^ — that we mark the 
beginnings of literary societies in France. Two of these de- 
mand our notice.* 

The earliest in point of date was that of the blue-stockings, 
headed by Madame de Rambouillet, whose hotel (town-house) 
became a seminary of female authors and factious politicians. 
The hostess was a lady of Italian origin, of fine taste and elegant 
education. She had been married at twelve years of age, and 
introduced to the world ; but she had turned away with disgust 
from the rude manners of the court of Henry IV., and devoted 
herself to classic studies in as much seclusion as she could 
easily command ; and after the death of the king, when the 
court presented few attractions, she gathered a distinguished 
circle round herself, combining the elegant intercourse of high 
life with the cultivation of literary tastes. Madame de Ram- 
bouillet was only five-and-thirty years of age when she was 
attacked with a peculiar malady, of which, we are told, the 
physicians of the day could neither determine the nature nor 
alleviate the suffering. She was, for the greater part of every 
year, obliged to keep her bed, yet not too ill to receive company, 
or too recluse in her tastes to renounce it. She therefore had 
an elegant alcove formed in the great salon of her house. Here 
her bed was placed, occasionally concealed by a screen ; and 

* See Miss Pardee's Louis XIV, 



THE HOTEL DE HAMBOUILLET. 149 

here, in the ruelle^ as the space round the bed was called, she 
received intimate friends in turns ; or the screen being with- 
drawn, she enjoyed the general company. The choicest wits 
of Paris flocked to her levees ; the Hotel de Rambouiiiet 
became another name for the fashionable rendezvous of litera- 
ture and taste, and has-hleiasm was the rage. Even the in- 
firmities of this accomplished lady were imitated : an alcove 
was essential to the happiness of every fashionable belle, who, 
attired in a coquettish deshabille, and recliniag on satin pillows 
fringed with lace, gave audience to whispered gossip in the 
ruelle. Literary ladies, in those days, were alcovists, and the 
news of the club was that of the rueiles. The hotel itself was 
deemed such a model of good taste, that Mary de Medicis com- 
manded the architect of the Luxemburg to follow its designs. 

M. de Walckenaer has given us a view of the interior on an 
occasion of general reunion, in the year 1644, when the society 
was in the height of its glory. It had met to hear a tragedy 
read by the great Corneille. 

Among many other personages renowned in their day, but"" 
now forgotten, were Mademoiselle de Scudery, then in the 
zenith of her fame ; Madame de Sevigne,"^ and Mademoiselle 
de la Vergne, afterwards Madame Lafayette, eminent as literary 
characters ; the Duchess de Longueville, the Duchess de Che- 
vreuse, and Madame Deshoulieres, afterwards distinguished 
for their political activity. At the feet of these noble ladies 
reclined a number of young seigneurs, dangling about their 
little hats surcharged with plumes, while their mantles of silk 
and gold were spread loosely on the floor ; and there, in more 
grave attire, were the professional litterateurs, such as Balzac, 
Yoiture, Menage, Scudery, Chaplain, Costart, Conrart, and the 
Abbe Bossuet. 



^ See Madame de Sevigne and her Contemporaries, Philadelphia, Lea 
&, Blanchard, 1342. - 
13* 



150 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

The hostess had so framed her invitations as to assemble all 
the rest of the company half an hour before the poet, that the 
reading might not be interrupted by entrees ; but they got 
tired of waiting, and the Marquis de Varde proposes to fill 
up the time agreeably by binding the eyes of Madame de Se- 
vign^ for a game at blind-man's buff. Madame de Rambou- 
illet implores ; but the prospect of fun is so tempting, that 
she has to yield assent. The excitement is at the highest : 
Mademoiselle de la Vergne, then twelve years of age, has on 
the ribbon, and is standing alone in the midst of the salon, 
her arms outstretched, and her feet cautiously advancing, when 
the poet appears, attended by his brother and Benserade. The 
game is relinquished for the more elevated entertainment of 
tragic poetry. Corneille was a bad reader of his own compo- 
sitions ; but the young Abbe Bossuet was called upon to repeat 
some of the most striking passages, which he did with that 
oratorical power for which he was so remarkable in the pulpit. 
Then sundry individuals of the company recited the verses 
which pleased them most, and with emphasis suited to the 
feeling they had awakened. Thus passed a morning at the 
H5tel de Rambouillet. 

The Cupid of the hotel was strictly Platonic. The romances 
of Mademoiselle de Scudery were long-spun disquisitions 
on love, in which the passion was sublimated to an essence as 
pure and as cold as the atmosphere twenty miles above the 
height of Mont Blanc. Her map of the Land of Love, which 
was considered a masterpiece of esprit, traced the progress of 
a lover from the village of Petits-soins to the hamlet of Billets- 
doux. Before he arrives even at the outposts of Propos-galants, 
he must cross the three broad rivers, and gain the points of 
Tendre-sur-Estime, Tendre-sur-Inclination, and Tendre-sur- 
Reconnaissance ; and so on. The characters in this lady's 
novels were understood to represent the living individuals by 
whom she was surrounded ; and it not only became a high 



MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDERY. 151 

honor to sit for this literary portrait-painter, but a kind of obli- 
gation to sustain the ideal character as it was drawn, and adopt 
the language as it was suggested in Mademoiselle de Scudery's 
books. Hence a world of affectation ; and one folly leading 
to another in this pursuit of refinement, the vocabulary of the 
salon became at length so artificial, that none but the initiated 
could understand it.* 

As for Mademoiselle de Scudery herself, though she was 
not without eligible enough suitors, yet applying, as it would 
seem in her own case, the impracticable tests she had invented 
for sounding the depth and sincerity of the tender passion, 
she died an old maid at the advanced age of ninety-four. 

The first and second of her interminable romances were 
published under her brother's name ; but the fame they ac- 
quired drew too much attention upon the reputed author to 
admit of his strutting long in borrowed plumage. As soon as 
the real author was known, her popularity became unbounded. 
She opened her own salon as a literary lady, and on Saturdays 
received the company of the Hotel de Rambouiliet, but with- 
out occasioning the least jealousy in its accomplished mis- 
tress. 

The civil wars of the Fronde, which broke out in 1649, and 
were not wholly over before 1654, were unfavorable to literary 
meetings ; but it is to be remarked, that the women who took 
the most distinguished part in these troubles, had graduated, 
if we may so speak, in the college of Rambouiliet. Also, 
when the extravagant but magnificent Fouquet, in whose 

* Perhaps no one has carried this style to a more ridiculous excess than 
Cyrano de Bergerac. Describing the aqueduct of Arcueil, he says that the 
water in it " est si delicate, qu'ello passe par-dessus les ponts, de peur de 
se mouiller ; qu^elle monte sur des 6chasses pour voir de plus loin ; que, 
pour s'etre vuo cajoler au village, elle devient si glorieuse, qu^elle ne veut 
plus marcher, si on ne la porte; qu'elle est un pate de poisson, qui a trc^ 
de sauce; un arc-en-ciel solide, une naiade au lit, qui revolt un clystere; 
le trou par ou elle s'echappe de son chenal est un ooil de terre, qui pleure." 



152 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

hands were tlie finances of tte kingdom, was thrown into the 
Bastille as a public defaulter, the ladies Scudery, Sevigne, and 
Lafayette, remained his unfailing friends. It was perhaps for 
these reasons that the Hotel de Rambouillet declined with the 
ascendancy of Louis Quatorze. The agitations of the Fronde 
had taught him to distrust clever women; and he always 
showed a marked dislike for female authorship. The come- 
dies of Moliere, as we shall see, gave the finishing stroke to 
the pedantry, at least, of the bas-bleus. 

The taste for literature which had become so generally dif- 
fused, rendered the men whose province it was to define its 
laws the chiefs of a brilliant empire, and grammar became an 
object of primary importance* Men of letters, therefore, fre- 
quently met together for the discussion of critical points of 
language ; and the literary meetings which multiplied in every 
direction were chiefly occupied with discussing the difficulties 
of grammar, and expressing opinions upon new works. About 
the year 1629, Chapelain, Gombaud, Godeau, Malleville, and 
some others, agreed to assemble on a certain day in each week 
at the house of Conrart, which was most conveniently situated 
for them all. It was not exclusively a literary meeting, for it 
appears they conversed familiarly on matters of business and 
public interest, as well as those of literature ; and confiden- 
tially sought and received advice with respect to the works in 
which they were engaged. It was a union of friendship, a 
companionship of men of kindred tastes and similar occupa- 
tions ; and to prevent the intrusion of unwelcome visiters, the 
meeting was kept secret, and continued so for nearly four 
years. As soon as it was divulged, one and another solicited 
admission, and Kichelieu came to hear of the existence of the 
society. This eminent minister partook of the fashionable 
taste for mental amusements, but at the same time rendered 
Ihem subservient to his political glory. He patronized litera- 
ture both as a minister and an amateur, the taste of the ama- 



THE FRENCH ACADEMY — DESCARTES. 153 

teur being supported by the authority of the minister. Again 
and again he desired to know whether these gentlemen would 
not like to form themselves into a corporation established by 
letters-patent, and thus to meet under public authority ; but 
nothing could have been less agreeable to them than such an 
honor. It was then hinted that, as by the laws of the realm 
no meetings might be held without royal permission, the car- 
dinal could put a stop to theirs if he were so disposed. This 
argument was irresistible ; and the little society consented to 
receive from his highness the title of the French Academy"^ 
(1635), and letters-patent, which were registered by the par- 
liament on condition that the members of the said academy 
shall occupy themselves in establishing certain rules for the 
French language, and rendering it not only elegant, but capa- 
ble of treating all matters of art and science. It was also to 
take cognisance of whatever books were written by its mem- 
bers, or by others who desired its opinions. 



VIIL— PHILOSOPHY. 

DESCARTES — PASCAL. 

During this very period, in a region far above that of court 
favor, and in a kind of exile which appears to have torn him 
from France only to give him to Europe, DESCARTEsf elabo- 
rated a system of philosophy in creating a method of philoso- 
phizing. He was born at La Haye, in Touraine (1596), of a 
noble family, and educated by the Jesuits at the college of La 

* A good outline of its history may be found in the Encyclopedia Bri- 
tannica, Art. Academy. 

t A sketch of his life is given in Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia, in the 
volume on Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France. 



154 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

FlecKe, where lie was early distinguished by a passionate de- 
votion to study. As soon as he left college, his first care, as 
he himself records, was to renounce all his books, and to en- 
deavor to divest his mind of all the uncertain theories with 
which it had been furnished, and henceforth to admit into it 
nothing but what was demonstrable. Unless we could trans- 
port ourselves back to the age of Descartes, in which every 
mind was imbued with the ancient scholastic philosophy, and 
no other was known, or at least recognised as orthodox, we 
can scarcely form any adequate idea of the effort it demanded 
to begin, like Descartes, to take nothing upon trust. But at 
nineteen years of age it was too early to elaborate a system, 
much more to propound his thoughts to the world. In con- 
formity with the fashion of his rank, and in order to gain a 
more extensive acquaintance with men and things, he embraced 
the profession of arms, which led him into Holland, Germany, 
and Hungary; after which, renouncing the military life, he 
continued to travel as a private individual, and at thirty-three 
years of age retired into Holland, in order to devote himself 
entirely to study without fear of distraction. Here he com- 
posed and published his principal works, from which he reaped 
immense renown, though he at the same time encountered a 
fearful storm of persecution. The leading peculiarity of his 
metaphysical system was the attempt to deduce all moral and 
religious truth from self-consciousness : '^ Cogito, ergo sum^' 
(I think, therefore, I am) was the famous axiom on which the 
whole was built. From this he was led to infer the existence 
of two distinct natures in man — the mental and the physical ; 
and having traced with a firm hand the line of demarcation 
between mind and matter, he proceeded to infer the existence 
of certain ideas, which he called innate in the mind, underived 
from the outward world, and serving to connect it with the 
spiritual and invisible. Among these, he said, was the notion 
of infinity ; and hence he concluded the knowledge of Deity 



DESCARTES. 155 

to be implanted in man's very nature. Besides these new 
views in metaphysics^ Descartes made valuable contributions to 
mathematical and physical science ; and though his philosophy 
is now generally discarded even in his own country, yet it is 
not forgotten that he opened the way for Locke, Newton, and 
Leibnitz, and that his system, which continued dominant in 
France till the time of Condillac, was in reality the base of all 
those which have superseded it. There is scarcely a name on 
record the bearer of which has given a greater impulse to 
mathematical and philosophical inquiry than Descartes ; and 
what is more to our present purpose, he embodied his most 
important lucubrations — his Discom^s sur la Methode, for in- 
stance — in the vernacular language, which he used in so mas- 
terly a way that it has justly been said his fame as a writer 
would have been greater if his celebrity as a thinker had been 
less. 

Finding himself exposed to persecution on account of his 
novel principles, he accepted the invitation of the king of 
Sweden to repair to Stockholm (1649), where, however, his 
naturally delicate constitution sunk under the rigor of the cli- 
mate in the fifty- fourth j^ear of his age (1650). He was buried 
at St. Genevieve, but no funeral oration was allowed over his 
remains. 

It is worth remarking here, that Malherbe, the severe re- 
former of French poetry, died (1628) two years after Lord 
Bacon, the English reformer of science, and about the same 
time that Descartes was preparing a similar revolution in 
France. It was the peculiar mission of these two great men 
to dethrone the ipse dixit of the schoolmen, and establish in 
mental and natural philosophy that great principle of free 
examination which Luther had already enforced in theology. 
But it must be mentioned, as detracting much from the merit 
and usefulness of Descartes, that the vivacity and dogmatism 
of his temper led him to behave superciliously towards the 



156 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

greatest men among his contemporaries^ while his jealousy 
prevented him from entering into friendly intercourse with 
GalileO; or encouraging the rising genius of Pascal. 

In a letter which Mersenne addressed to Descartes, dated 
November 12, 1639, he mentions a young man sixteen years 
of age, who had composed a treatise on conic sections, and who 
gave promise of eclipsing all the mathematicians of the day. 
Descartes received the intelligence coldly, and without any 
appearance of interest. Eight years afterwards, the youthful 
and the matured philosopher were personally introduced ; they 
conversed on their experiments on the vacuum, on the weight 
of the air, and what Descartes had called the subtile matter. 
This young man, whose precocious intellect and early attain- 
ments almost displeased Descartes, was Blaise Pascal.* 

This amazing genius was born in the province of Auvergne, 
in 1623. At the death of his mother, which happened when 
he was three years of age, his father determined to devote 
himself entirely to the education of this his only son and two 
daughters ; and for this purpose disposed of a public appoint- 
ment which he held at Clermont, and removed to Paris. It 
was an interesting era in the annals of the human mind. The 
darkness of scholastic philosophy was gradually clearing away 
before the light which an improved method of study was 
shedding over the natural sciences. A system of philosophy 
founded on observation was preparing the downfall of those 
traditional errors which had long held the mastery in the 
schools. Geometricians, physicians, and astronomers taught 
by their example the severe process of reasoning which was to 
regenerate all the sciences ; and minds of the first order, scat- 
tered in various parts of Europe, communicated to each other 
the results of their labors, and stimulated each other to new 

* See Lardner*s Cabinet Cyclopedia. 



PASCAL. 157 

exertion. The elder Pascal, himself a man of considerable 
attainments, and connected with the best informed men in 
^aris, took an active part in those conferences which proved 
he cradle of the Royal Academy of Science, and in the cor- 
•espondence which was maintained with foreign savans. His 
)wn tastes were mathematical, but he did not intend to initiate 
iiis son in the exact sciences till after his memory and imagina- 
tion had been duly cultivated by literary studies. The boy, 
however, by the force of his own unaided intellect, dived deep 
into mathematical science, and at twelve years of age had made 
such singular progress, that his father allowed him to follow 
the bent of his genius. At sixteen, he produced a treatise on 
conic sections, which was followed at short intervals by several 
important discoveries in arithmetic and geometry. In 1647, 
his experiments on the vacuum and the pressure of the atmo- 
sphere completed the researches of Torricelli; and in 1653, he 
put the top-stone on his scientific labors by his treatise on the 
equilibrium of fluids, and his observations on the mechanical 
powers. Thus far he was known to the public only as one of 
the most eminent geometricians of modern times. But about 
this time he formed the design of abandoning science for pur- 
suits exclusively religious ; and circumstances arose which be- 
came the occasion of those Lettres Provinciales, which, with 
the Pensees de la Religion^ are considered among the finest 
specimens of French literature. 

The abbey of Port Royal aux Champs* occupied a lonely 
situation about six leagues from Paris. A short time before 
that of which we now speak, its internal discipline had under- 
gone a thorough reformation under the pious care of Angelica 
Arnaud, the daughter of a noble of Auvergne; and the abbey 
rose to such high reputation, that several men of eminent 



* For a Sketch of the Port Royalists see James Stephen's Essay, also 
Quarterly Review, October, 1856. 
14 



1 58 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

piety and learning, among the rest two brothers of the abbess 
Angelica, were attracted to the spot, and took up their abode 
in one of the private houses that pertain to the establishment, 
there to enjoy literary leisure and religious privileges. Besides 
works strictly devotional, they compiled books of secular instruc- 
tion, known under the title of Les Methodes de Port Royal, 
some of which, as the Logic and Grammar, gained a lasting 
and extensive reputation. They likewise received pupils, and 
their system of education became celebrated, both in a religious 
and an intellectual point of view. Their great rivals were the 
Jesuits, who at that time enjoyed almost a monopoly in the 
work of classical education, having colleges for this purpose 
in most of the larger towns. Pascal, though not himself a 
member of the Port Eoyal establishment, was a frequent 
visitor, and united in the bonds of friendship with its gifted 
recluses, whose severe principles and serious conversation 
accorded well with his own predilections. Antoine Arnaud 
having been drawn into a controversy with the Sorbonne on 
the doctrines of the Jansenists,* had recourse to the aid of 
Pascal, who, as if by inspiration, adopted a mode of reply at 
once novel and happy. He published at short intervals a 
series of letters, purporting to be from one Louis de Montalte 
to a provincial friend; and giving these letters a dramatic 
form, he brought his adversaries on the stage with himself, 
and fairly cut them up for the public amusement. This expo- 
sure of the doctrines and policy of the Jesuits is allowed on 
all hands to combine the comic pleasantry of Moliere with the 



*• The Jansenists corresponded to the ultra-Calvinists of Protestantism, 
contending for the necessity of a peculiar inward vocation, or effectual call, 
in order to repentance and salvation. They were so called from Jansen, 
bishop of Ypres, in whose works the five points were said to be embodied. 
The doctrine of their opponents — that every man receives grace sufficient 
to choose between sin and holiness — was called Molinist, after Molina, a 
Jesuit who wrote on the subject. 



PASCAL. 159 

vehement eloquence of Demosthenes. The style, so clear and 
popular that a child might understand it, and at the same time 
so elegant and attractive, gained immediate attention. But 
notwithstanding the sensation thus produced in favor of the 
Port Royalists, and the still more astounding effect of a 
miraculous cure declared to have been wrought at the con- 
vent, which for a time silenced their adversaries, the Jesuits 
renewed their efforts; induced the parliament of Provence to 
condemn the Letters to be burned by the common hangman ; 
and the Port Eoyalists, refusing to sign a formula condemnatory 
of their famous doctrines, were driven from their retreat, and 
the establishment broken up. Jaqueline Pascal* died of grief 
for this misfortune ; and Blaise Pascal's forcible repression of 
his natural feelings on the occasion, too truly indicated the 
unnatural discipline to which he had subjugated himself. 

The work which is considered Pascal's master-piece, is his 
Pensees de la Religion. It consists of fragments of thought, 
appearing as if thrown together at hap-hazard on the paper 
without apparent connexion or unity of design; scattered 
materials, requiring that arrangement which could have been 
supplied only by the hand of the writer. It has been often 
lamented that he never constructed the edifice which it is 
believed he had designed, and of which these Thoughts were 
the splendid materials in course of collection. Several of his 
editors have endeavored to reduce them to order and classifi- 
cation ; but it is doubtful whether they have discovered any- 
thing like the sequence which was in the author's mind. Some 
of his admirers think they can trace the outline of a complete 
system of religious philosophy, unfolding the nature and desti- 
nies of man, defining the limits of his moral and physical 
powers, exposing his weakness and poverty, but displaying, at 
the same time, the remains of his fallen greatness, and its pros- 

*■ See Life of Jaqueline Pascal, New York, 1S54. 



160 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

pects of restoration through the principles and powers revealed 
in the Christian religion. These Though ts^ however, are in 
some places obscure ; there are frequent repetitions, and even 
glaring contradictions, concerning which the admirers of Pas- 
cal say, that the obscurities and repetitions are necessarily in- 
cident to a collection of detached notes, which must not be 
judged by the ordinary rules of literary composition ; while 
the contradictory passages are accounted for by supposing 
them to be notes of objections which the author intended to 
answer. On the other hand, the enemies of Pascal say, that 
during the few last years of his life his mind was decidedly 
unsound, and veered most painfully between philosophic doubt 
and religious belief; sometimes hopelessly sceptical, sometimes 
superstitiously credulous. It is known that from his eighteenth 
year, he was a great sufferer ; that his mental labors, which he 
could not be prevailed upon to relax, were too much for his 
delicate frame ; and that, after an accident by which his car- 
riage was nearly overturned into the Seine, he was subject to 
severe headaches, and a sensation as though he were falling 
over a precipice. From the time of this occurrence, which 
took place in his thirty-fifth year, he believed his days were 
numbered, and devoted himself with assiduity, and after a 
fashion not deemed superstitious in that age, to prepare for 
another world. His self-inflicted tortures probably hastened 
his death, which took place in 1662, shortly after he had com- 
pleted his thirty-ninth year. A posthumous examination of 
his body displayed the liver and intestines dried up, and the 
brain almost of a solid consistence. 

After being obliged to advert to so much that is frivolous 
and profane in French literature, it is quite refreshing to meet 
an author like Pascal ; and we gladly present a specimen of 
his Thoughts : — 

BE jfiSUS-CHRIST. 

La distance infinie des corps aux esprits figure la distance infini- 
ment plus infinie des esprits ti la charity ; car elle est surnaturelle. 



PASCAL. 161 

Tout I'eclat des grandeurs n'a point de lustre pour les gens qui sont 
dans les recherches de I'esprit. La grandeur des gens d'esprit est 
invisible aux riches, aux rois, aux conqu^rants et a tons ces grands 
de chair. La grandeur de la sagesse qui vient de Dieu est invisible 
aux charnels et aux gens d'esprit. Ce sont trois ordres de differents 
genres. 

Les grands genies ont leur empire, leur eclat, leur grandeur, leurs 
victoires, et n'ont nul besoin des grandeurs charnelles, qui n'ont nul 
rapport avec celles qu'ils cherchent. lis sont vus des esprits, non 
des yeux ; mais c'est assez. Les saints ont leur empire, leur eclat, 
leurs grandeurs, leurs victoires, et n'ont nul besoin des grandeurs 
charnelles ou spirituelles, qui ne sont pas de leur ordre, et qui 
n'ajoutent ni n'otent a la grandeur qu'ils desirent. lis sont vus de 
Dieu et des anges, et non des corps ni des esprits curieux : Dieu leur 
Buffit. 

Archimbde, sans aucun eclat de naissance, serait en meme v^n^ra- 
tion. II n'a pas donne des batailles, mais il a laiss^ a tout I'univers 
des inventions admirables. Oh! qu'il est grand et eclatant aux yeux 
de I'esprit! Jesus-Christ, sans bien et sans aucune production de 
science au dehors, est dans son ordre de saintete. II n'a point donne 
d'inventions, il n'a point regn^; mais il est humble, patient, saint devant 
Dieu, terrible aux demons, sans aucun peche. Oh ! qu'il est venu en 
grande pompe et en une prodigieuse magnificence aux yeux du coeur, 
et qui voient la sagesse ! 

II eut ete inutile a -Archimfede de faire le prince dans ses livres de 
g^ometrie, quoiqu'il le fut. II eut ete inutile a notre Seigneur Jesus- 
Christ, pour eclater dans son regne de saintete, de venir en roi. Mais 
qu'il est bien venu avec I'eclat de son ordre ! 

II est ridicule de se scandaliser de la bassesse de Jesus-Christ, 
comme si cette bassesse ^tait du meme ordre que la grandeur qu'il 
venait faire paraitre. Qu'on considere cette grandeur-la dans sa vie, 
dans sa passion, dans son obscurite, dans sa mort, dans I'election des 
siens, dans leur fuite, dans sa secrete resurrection, et dans le reste ; 
on la verra si grande, qu'on n'aura pas sujet de se scandaliser d'une 
bassesse qui n'y est pas. Mais il y en a qui ne peuvent admirer que 
les grandeurs charnelles, comme s'il n'y en avait pas de spirituelles, 
et d'autres qui n'admirent, que les spirituelles, comme s'il n'y en avait 
pas d'infiniment plus hautes dans la sagesse. 

Tons les corps, le firmament, les etoiles, la terre, et les royaumes, 
14*- 



162 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

ne valent pas le moindre des esprits ; car il connait tout cela, et 
soi-meme ; et le corps, rien. Et tous les corps- et tous les esprits 
ensemble, et toutes leurs productions, ne valent pas le moindre mouve- 
ment de charite ; car elle est d'un ordre infiniment plus eleve. 

De tous les corps ensemble on ne saurait tirer la moindre pensee : 
cela est impossible et d'un autre ordre. Tous les corps et les esprits 
ensemble ne sauraient produire un mouvement de vraie charity : cela 
est impossible, et d'un autre ordre tout surnaturel. 



IX.— THE DRAMA. 

CORNEILLE. 



The same year in wliicli the French Academy received its 
mission to watch over the purity of the language^ and in which 
Descartes published his Discours sur la Methode, a new era in 
the drama was ushered in by Corneille,* the father of French 
tragedy. 

Corneille waS; it has been remarked, a man greater in him- 
self than even in his works, conceiving ideas more .sublime 
than he executed ; possessing a mighty genius, but restrained 
from achieving all that he was capable of, being fettered by 
the rules of the French drama, and the conventional state of 
French verse. We know little of his personal history ; a sort 
of shadowy indistinctness hangs over the course of his life, 
and only here and there we catch a glimpse of his career. 
His father was master of waters and forests in the viscounty 
of Rouen, where the poet was born in 1606. The lad was 
destined for the legal profession, and trained in the severe 
studies which were necessary to prepare him for it ; but the 
dictates of his genius early prompted him to a different voca- 

* See Life of Corneille by Guizot ; also Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia, 
Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of France. 



CORNEILLE. " 163 

tion, and tlie tastes of tlie age were calculated to stimulate 
and encourage him. The day of the Mysteries and the ilio- 
ralities was past; the comedies of Hardy, the court poet of 
Henry IV., had been in turn consigned to oblivion ; Riche- 
lieu^ s, though revised and patched up by the best authors in 
Paris, were contemptible, yet the taste for the drama spread 
and prevail. It is said that a friend of Corneille's, who loved 
but without return, introduced the poet to the lady, and begged 
him to write a sonnet in his name to propitiate the cruel fair. 
She was propitiated, indeed, but it was towards the poet, not 
the lover ; and the adventure formed the groundwork of 
3Ielite, the first comedy of Corneille. " This,'' he says, '^ was 
my coup d'essai. It is not in the rules, for I did not know 
of their existence ; common-sense was my only guide, with the 
example of Hardy. The success of my piece was wonderful ; 
it caused the formation of a new company of players in Paris ; 
and being equal to the best which had as yet appeared, it 
brought me under the notice of the court.'' Melite was fol- 
lowed by several other pieces, which, though now considered 
unreadable, were better than anything then known; and Cor- 
neille had the honor of being appointed one of the five authors 
who filled up the plays sketched by Richelieu. Having ven- 
tured, however, to make some alteration which the cardinal 
disapproved, he was informed that it was necessary to have tin 
esprit de suite; whereupon he abjured his subaltern employ- 
ment, and found a pretext for returning to Rouen. Here he 
continued to write, stimulated, as he himself intimates, by the 
secret admiration of the lady whose love, we are told, was the 
dominant passion of his life. 

J'ai brule fort longtemps cVune amour assez grande, 
Et que jusqu'au tombeau je dois bien estimer, 
Puisque ce fut par-la que j'appris a rimer. 
Mon bonheur commen^a quand moii ame fut prise, 
Je gagnni de la gloire en perdant ma franchise. 



164 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Charme de deux beaux yeux, mon vers charma la cour ; 

Et ce que j'ai de nom je le dois a I'amour. 

J'adorai done Phylis, et la secrete estime 

Que ce divin esprit faisait de notre rime 

Me fit devenir poete aussitot qu'amoureux : 

Elle eut mes premiers vers, elle eut mes premiers feux, 

Et bien que maintenant cette belle inhuraaine 

Traite mon souvenir avec un peu de haine, 

Je me trouve toujours en etat de I'airaer; 

Je me sens tout emu quand je I'entends nommer, 

Et par le doux efFet d'une prompte tendresse, 

Mon coeur, sans mon aveu, reconnait sa maitresse. 

Apres beaucoup de voeux et de soumissions 

Un malheur rompt le cours de nos affections; 

Mais tout mon amour en elle consommee, 

Je ne vols rien d'aimable apres I'avoir aimee ; 

Aussi n'aime-je plus, et nul objet vainqueur 

N'a possede depuis ma veine ni mon coeur. 

An attempt at tragedy on a classical theme having met with 
little success, Corneille persevered in comedy, till a new field 
opened to his view. The Spanish drama having arisen, not 
among the learned, but the people, had been essentially popu- 
lar from its commencement. Here was no attempt to exhibit 
the heroes of classic antiquity speaking modern languages and 
expressing modern feelings. The Spanish poets depicted men 
such as they knew, narrated events such as they had witnessed, 
and embodied passions such as they had felt. Chalons, the 
Italian secretary of Marie de Medici, retiring to Rouen in his 
declining years, and meeting with Corneille, advised him to 
abandon comedy, and turn his attention to the Spanish lan- 
guage, in which he would find subjects suited to his genius. 
The result was the production of the Cidy which is allowed to 
constitute an era in the dramatic history of France (1635). 
In this work, Corneille followed pretty closely in the steps of 
Guilhen de Castro, who had constructed a drama on the 
foundation of the old Spanish romances which narrate the 



OORNEILLE. 165 

history of this famous hero. Only he rejected certain puerili- 
ties, which, however venerable in Spain, would have excited 
ridicule in France. 

Rodrigo, afterwards called the Cid, son of the venerable Don 
Diego, is attached to Ximena,* the daughter of Gomez, Count 
of Gormas, with the approval of the parents on both sides. 
But ere the arrival of the nuptial-day, Diego informs his son 
that he has received an insult from a powerful warrior, and his 
own feeble arm being unable to sway the sword, he commits 
the vengeance to him. Rodrigo is shocked and staggered to 
learn that the offender is no other than the father of his be- 
trothed. But Diego will listen to no objection : 

Ne replique point, je connois ton amour ; 

Mais qui pent vivre infame est indigne du jour; 

Plus I'offenseur est cher, et plus grande est I'offense; 

Enfin tu sais 1' affront, et tu tiens la vengeance. 

Je ne te dis plus rien ; venge-moi, venge-toi ; 

Montre-toi digne fils d'un pere tel que moi: 

Accable des malheurs ou le destin me range, 

Je m'en vais les pleurer. Va, cours, vole, et nous venge. 

The dutiful son, accordingly, challenges and slays the count, 
who has refused even the king's desire that he should humble 
himself and seek reconciliation. Ximena hastens into the 
royal presence, and demands vengeance on her lover for the 
death of her father, while Diego pleads for his son, as having 
done what was right, while he offers to die in his stead, if 
need be : 

Sire, ainsi ces cheveux blancliis sous le harnois, 
Ce sang pour vous servir prodigu^ tant de fois, 
Ce bras, jadis I'effroi d'une armee ennemie, 
Descendoient au tombeau tous charges d'infamie, 
Si je n'eusse produit un fils digne de moi, 
Digne de son pays, et digne de son roi. 

* Chimene, according to French orthography. 



166 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

II m'a prete sa main, il a tue le comte, 

II m'a rendu I'honneur, il a lave ma honte. 

Si montrer du courage et du ressentiment, 

Si venger un soufflet merite un chatiment, 

Sur moi seul doit tomber I'eclat de la tempete : 

Quand le bras a failli, Ton en punit la tete. 

Qu'on nomme crime, ou nou, ce qui fait nos debats, 

Sire, j'en suis la tete, il n'en est que le bras. 

Si Chimene se plaint qu'il a tue son p^re, 

II ne I'eut jamais fait, si je I'eusse pu faire. 

Immolez done ce chef que les ans vont ravir, 

Et conservez pour vous le bras qui pent servir ; 

Aux depens de mon sang satisfaites Chimene, 

Je n'y resiste point, je consens a ma peine ; 

Et, loin de murmurer d'un rigoureux decret, 

Mourant sans deshonneur, je mourrai sans regret. 

Meanwhile^ Rodrigo lias souglifc the dwelling of Ximena, 
and, on her return, presents lier with tlie sword still stained 
"witli her father's blood, and implores her to take her own 
vengeance with it : 

CMmlne. Ote-moi cet objet odieux, 
Qui reproche ton crime et ta vie a mes yeux. 

Don Rodrigue. Regarde-le plutot pour exciter ta haine, 
Pour croltre ta colere, et pour hater ma peine. 
Chim. II est teint de mon sang. 

D. Rod. Plonge-le dans le mien, 
Et fais-lui perdre ainsi la teinture du tien. 

She refuses, and mutual explanations follow, in which she 
admits that she loves him still, and does not blame him for 
avenging his father's honor ^ but that a similar feeling on 
her own part stimulates and obliges her to seek vengeance 
upon him: 

D.Rod. Rigoureux point d'honneur! Helas! quoi que jefasse, 
Ne pourrai-je a la fin obtenir cette grace ? 
Au nom d'un pere mort, ou de notre amitie, 
Punis-moi par vengeance, ou du moins par pitie ; 



CORNEILLE. 167 

Ton malheureux amant aura bien moins de peine 
A mourir par ta main, qu'a vivre avec ta haine. 
Chim. Va, je ne te hais point. 

D. Rod. Tu le dois. 

Chim. Je ne puis. 

Again she says ; 

Malgre des feux si beaux qui troublent ma colere 
Je ferai mon possible a bien venger mon pere ; 
Mais, malgr^ la rigueur d'un si cruel devoir, 
Mon unique souhait est de ne rien pouvoir. 
D. Rod. miracle d' amour ! 

Chim. comble de misferes ! 
D. Rod. Que de maux et de pleurs nous couterent nos p^res I 
Chim. Rodrigue, qui Teiit cru ! . . . 

D. Rod. Chimbne, qui I'eut dit ! . . . 
Chim. Que notre heur fut si proche, et sitot se perdit ! . . . 
D, Rod. Et que, si pres du port, contre toute apparence, 
Un orage si prompt brisat notre esperance ! 
Chim. Ah, mortelles douleurs ! 

D. Rod. Ah, regrets superflus ! 

And with sucli sentiments they part. 

Don Diego now meeting his son, applauds his valor : 

Ne mele point de soupirs a ma joie; 

Laisse-moi prendre haleine, afin de te louer. 

Ma valeur n'a point lieu de te desavouer, 

Tu I'as bien imitee ; et ton illustre audace 

Fait bien revivre en toi les heros de ma race. 

C'est d'eux que tu descends, c'est de moi que tu viens. 

Ton premier coup d'epee egale tons les miens ; 

Et d'une belle ardeur ta jeunesse animee 

Par cette grande epreuve atteint ma renommee. 

Appui de ma vieillesse, et comble de mon heur, 

Touche ces cheveux blancs a qui tu rends I'honneur ; 

Viens baiser cette joue, et reconnois la place 

Oil fut empreint I'affront que ton courage efface. 

He would induce him also to renounce his attachment to 



168 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Ximena ; but Rodrigo pleads that honor binds him to her as 
much as it bound him to fight with her father : 

Mon honneur offense sur moi-meme se venge, 

Et vous m'osez pousser a la honte du change ! 

L'infamie est pareille, et suit egalement 

Le guerrier sans courage, et le perfide amant. 

A ma fidelite ne faites point d'injare, 

Souffrez-moi genereux sans me rendre parjure : 

Mes liens sont trop forts pour etre ainsi rompus ; 

Ma foi m'engage encor si je n'espere plus ; 

Et, ne pouvant quitter ni posseder Chimene, 

Le trepas que je cherche est ma plus douce peine. 

The father answers, that an opportunity now occurs for atoning 
for the blood he has spilt, and proving to the king that he 
may find in him a worthy successor of the count. Five hun- 
dred of his friends had assembled, and offered their services 
to avenge his wrong; and just at this juncture, the Moors 
have made a sudden descent upon the city. '' Gro,'^ says he 
to his son, ^^ march at their head against these enemies of 
Spain.^' Rodrigo obeys, performs prodigies of valor, brings 
home two royal prisoners, and obtains leave to enter the king^s 
presence, and give an account of the battle. This he does in 
a truly graphic manner ; and the passage is much admired : 
the following is a part of it : — 

Cette obscure clarte qui tombe des ^toiles 
Enfin avec le flux nous fait voir trente voiles ; 
L'onde s'enfle dessous, et d'un comraun effort 
Les Maures et la mer montent jusques au port. 
On les laisse passer; tout leur paroit tranquille ; 
Point de soldats au port, point aux murs de la ville. 
Notre profond silence abusant leurs esprits, 
lis n'osent plus douter de nous avoir surpris ; 
Us abordent sans peur, ils ancrent, ils descendent, 
Et courent se livrer aux mains qui les attendent. 
Nous nous levons alors, et tous en meme temps 
Poussons jusques au cicl mille cris cclatants. 



CORNEILLE. 169 

But now Ximena demands an audience ; and Rodrigo is dis* 
missed, wliile she enters, and anew requires the promise^ 
justice. The king, for a moment, deceives her into the idea 
that Rodrigo has fallen in the conflict : 

D. Ferd, Enfin, soyez contente, 
Chimene ; le succ^s r^pond a votre attente. 
Si de nos ennemis Rodrigue a le dessus, 
n est mort a nos yeux des coups qu'il a re9us ; 
Eendez graces au del qui vous en a vengee. 

And now, having observed the deadly pallor which the intelli- 
gence has spread over her cheek, he corrects the impression, 
and pleads for her lover. She pretends that her momentary 
grief was for the loss of the expected vengeance — was to hear 
that Rodrigo had fallen gloriously in the field, instead of 
ignominiously on the scaffold ; and when the king persists in 
pleading the case with her, she demands that it may be pro- 
claimed among the cavaliers, that she desires a champion to 
meet her adversary, and her hand shall be his reward if he 
slays him. The king disapproves of renewing these barbarous 
old customs, confesses his desire to spare Rodrigo, believes 
that the flying Moors have borne his crime along with them, 
and objects to make him a butt for a host of warriors. How- 
ever, he allows her to select one champion, under promise of 
bestowing her hand on whoever proves the victor : 

Choisis qui tu voudras, Chimene, et choisis bien : 
Mais apr^s ce combat ne demande plus rien. 

Sancho offers himself, and is accepted. In the interim, Rod- 
rigo seeks Ximena, and assures her that he will not attempt to 
defend himself against the hand which she has chosen to slay 
him: 

Maintenant qu'il s'agit de mon seul int^ret, 
Vous demandez ma mort, j'en accepte I'arrSt j 
15 



170 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Votre ressentiment choisit la main d'un autre, 
Je ne m^ritois pas de mourir de la voire : 
On ne me verra point en repousser les coups ; 
Je dois plus de respect a qui combat pour vous ; 
Et, ravi de penser que c'est de vous qu'ils viennent, 
Puisque c'est votre honneur que ses armes soutiennent, 
Je vais lui presenter mon estomac ouvert, 
Adorant en sa main la votre qui me perd. 

She would fain persuade him otherwise ; and when all other 
arguments fail, she begs him to fight manfully, were it only to 
deliver her from the necessity of marrying a man she hates. 
Rodrigo completely defeats his adversary, but spares his life ; 
and the king insists that the lady shall give her hand to the 
man she loves : 

Ma fille, il ne faut point rougir d'un si beau feu, 

Ni chercher les moyens d'en faire un d^saveu ; 

Une louable honte en vain t'en soUicite ; 

Ta gloire est degag^e, et ton devoir est quitte ; 

Ton pere est satisfait ; et c'^toit le venger 

Que mettre tant de fois ton Rodrigue en danger. 

Tu vois comme le ciel autrement en dispose ; 

Ayant tant faiC pour lui, fais pour toi quelque chose, 

Et ne sois point rebelle a mon commandement. 

Qui te donne un epoux aim^ si ch^rement. 

It were easy to point out serious defects in this much-lauded 
work ; the senseless notion of unity of time crowding into 
twenty-four hours events which could be probable and natural 
only after a lapse of years; the anachronism of placing the 
scene in Seville, which was not in the possession of the Spanish 
people till long after the time of the Cid ; with other faults 
resulting from adherence to what the countrymen of Corneille 
had laid down as indispensable rules of the drama. But, on 
the other hand, it was the first time that the depths of passion 
had been stirred on the stage ; that love and duty, tenderness 
and magnanimity, had been exhibited in direful conflict and 



CORNEILLE. 171 

With tragic effect. Tlie success was unprecedented. It was 
received with enthusiasm in Paris, and all France resounded 
with its praise, till a sort of epidemic transport pervaded the 
country. Nothing else was talked of; the people were never 
tired of seeing it ; every one knew some part of it by heart ; 
and it became usual to praise any person or thing by calling 
them Beau comme It Old. 

Such high renown proved, of course, a signal for envy and 
detraction. A fierce controversy ensued; and Richelieu, 
secretly desirous of humbling a man whose triumph he con- 
sidered as rebellion against himself, desired that the merits of 
the Cid should be referred to the French Academy. In vain 
did this body allege its well-grounded fear of making its young 
existence odious by exercising a power which it did not right- 
fully possess : the cardinal said their arguments appeared to 
him to have very little weight. The Academy urged that, 
according to their statutes, they could not sit in judgment on 
any work without the author's concurrence ; and the cardinal 
employed Bois-Eobert to remove this obstacle. In vain were 
all the efforts of a court friendship enlisted in the cause ; Cor- 
neille maintained a most complimentary and deferential tone, 
and with polite formalities evaded a direct refusal. When at 
length it was clearly announced as the desire of a minister with 
whom to desire was to command, Corneille was induced to 
reply : ^^ The gentlemen of the Academy may do as they 
please ; as you write that monseigneur would like to have their 
opinion, and that it would divert his highness, I have nothing 
more to say.^' The Academy would still have held back, and 
authority had to use its last resource. '' Tell those gentlemen 
that I desire it, and that I shall love them as they love me,'' 
said the minister; and the Academy, like Corneille, ^^had 
nothing more to say." 

Again and again was the report of this body laid before his 
highness and objected to; and not till after five months' labor 
to frame such a judgment as should satisfy him without insult- 



172 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

ing the public; were these gentlemen relieved and their report 
given to the world. The task forced upon them had been a 
singularly difficult as well as invidious one. There had as yet 
been no modelS; and consequently no rules, by which the 
intrinsic merits of such a work could be tried ; the only tests 
which were or could be applied were those of verbal criticism, 
with some derived from the ancient classics. While pointing 
out several defects, accordingly, the judges added, that '' even 
learned men must extend some indulgence to the irregularities 
of a work which would not have had the good fortune to please 
the public so much if it had not possessed uncommon beauties ; 
and that the naturalness and vehemence of its passions, the 
energy and delicacy of many of its thoughts, and a certain 
indescribable charm which mingles with all its defects, have 
obtained for it a high rank among French poems of the same 
nature.^^ 

To complete the absurdity of this affair, Scudery, the great 
adversary of Corneille in this matter, returned thanks to the 
Academy for what he considered a triumph, while the poet 
complained bitterly of the treatment he had received. These 
were not the days of high and independent feeling, however; 
and notwithstanding the literary jealousy that existed between 
the minister and the dramatist, we find patronage graciously 
extended by the one, and humbly accepted by the other. 
Fontenelle, the nephew of Corneille, relates that the cardinal, 
on one occasion, observing Corneille to be more thoughtful 
than usual, asked whether he had any composition on hand ; 
to which the poet replied, that he was in no state for literary 
labor, his head being turned by a tender attachment. Coming 
to particulars, he informed his highness that he was passionately 
fond of a daughter of the lieutenant-general of Andely, who 
refused to give her in marriage. Richelieu at once despatched 
a peremptory summons to the father, who forthwith repaired 
to Paris in the utmost alarm, and was relieved to find that no 



CORNEILLE. 178 

worse fate awaited him than that of being obliged to surrender 
his daughter to Corneille. 

It was natural, however, for the poet to remember what the 
minister had forgotten, and Corneille found it difficult to 
believe in the sincerity of a reconciliation on the other side 
which was not complete on his own. He continued to go for- 
ward relying on his own powers, and confident of his own 
resources, firmly awaiting the renewed attacks of envy and 
malignity. None, however, appeared; at least no cry has 
reached us but that of universal admiration. For years his 
pieces followed each other in rapid succession without opposi- 
tion, and almost without interruption, enjoying such a monopoly 
that the history of the stage was that of Corneille's works. 
Meanwhile the author had retired to Rouen, withdrawing into 
that personal obscurity which was congenial to the simplicity 
of his manners, and his life can be traced only in his works. 
The Old had given occasion for scandal by the triumph of love 
which it exhibited — a triumph long resisted, however, and at 
last but imperfectly achieved ; in Les Horaces love was repre- 
sented as punished for its rebellion against the laws of honor ; 
in Cinnay as though in expiation of Chimene's weakness, all 
more tender considerations are sacrificed to the implacable duty 
of avenging a father; while in Polyeuctej duty triumphs alone, 
and the sacrifices of the leading characters do not cost them a 
single virtue. And now Corneille would try comedy again, 
borrowing, as in tragedy, from the Spanish. Le Menteur was 
the result ; but tragedy resumed possession of his genius. ^' It 
is impossible,^' says Guizot, ^' to imagine what that genius 
would have become, or to divine either the extraordinary 
beauties which it might have unfolded, or the vagaries of 
which it might have been guilty, if he had boldly abandoned 
himself to its guidance. But Corneille feared criticism, though 
he defied it ; he was angry at being obliged to fight his way, 

and therefore withdrew from the path in which he was likely 

15* 



174 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

to meet with enemies — a prndence which perhaps saved him 
from some dangerous quicksands, but undoubtedly hindered 
him from some valuable discoveries/' Pertharite was the first 
of his pieces which appeared a failure, and was met with severe 
criticism. Thenceforth his decline was as rapid as his success 
had been brilliant. " The fall of the greai Comeille/' says 
Pontenelle, ^^may be reckoned among the most remarkable 
examples of the vicissitudes of human affairs ; even Belisarius 
asking alms is not more striking.'' To the poet himself, it 
came as an unexpected blow ; and the bitterness it produced 
appears in his preface to Pertharite, ^'li is just/' he says, 
^^ that after twenty years of labor, I should be made conscious 
of 'growing too old to continue in vogue." Being determined 
to take leave of the public before they entirely took leave of 
him, he spent six years in entire seclusion, during which he 
composed a metrical version of the Imitation of Jesus Christy 
as well as three discourses on dramatic poetry, and some 
criticisms upon his own works. Again he was induced, in 
1659, to revert to tragedy, and (Edipe, with some other pieces, 
appeared. As his years increased, he became apparently more 
and more anxious for popularity, the grief of his failures having 
made him forget his earlier successes. The following lines, 
in which he implores the favor of Louis XIV. for his last 
works, depict his feeling of desertion in such wise as must excite 
our sympathy for the old age of a great man, who cannot let 
go his hold of the popularity which cheered his better days. 

Ach^ve : les derniers n'ont rien qui d^gen^re, 
Rien qui les fasse croire enfans d'un autre pere ; 
Ce sont des malheureux etouff^s au berceau 
Qu'un seul de tes regards tireroit du tombeau. 

¥: "k ^ 

**Ag^silas" en foule auroit des spectateiirs, 
Et " B^rdnice" enfin trouveroit des acteurs, 
Le peuple, je I'avoue, et la cour les degradent, 
Je foiblis, ou du moin.s i]s se le persuadent 



CORNEILLE. 175 

Pour bien ^crire encor j'ai trop long-temps ^crit, 
Et les rides du front passent jusqu'a I'esprit. 
Mais contra cet abus, que j'aurois de suffrages 
Si tu donnois les tiens a mes derniers ouvrages ! 
Que de tant de bonte Timp^rieuse loi 
Rameneroit bientot et peuple et cour vers moi ! 
Tel Sophocle k cent ans charmoit encore Ath^nes, 
Tel bouillonoit encor son vieux sang dans ses veines ! 
Diroient-ils a I'envi. * « * 

It must be told, too, that having been so long in possession 
of undisputed superiority, he could not behold without dis- 
satisfaction the rising glory of his successors. His jealousy 
was like that of a child who requires a smile for himself 
whenever caresses are bestowed upon his brother. Towards 
the close of his life, this weakness was greatly increased by 
the successive decay of his bodily organs; he survived the 
loss of his faculties for a year, and died on the 1st of October, 
1684, in the seventy-ninth year of his age. 



AGE OF LOUIS XIV. 



X.— VARIOUS INFLUENCES COMBINING TO FORM THE LITE- 
RATURE OF THIS PERIOD— DIRECT INFLUENCE OF THE 
KING 

When Louis XIV. assumed the reins of government, 
France had received those various elements which were calcu- 
lated to prepare her for a brilliant period in literature. She 
had been brought into close relations with the countries then 
most advanced in this career — namely, Spain and Italy ; and 
she had received from the study of the ancient masters the 
best correctives of whatever might have been extravagant in 
national genius, whether her own or that of her contempora- 
ries. The polemical distractions of the sixteenth century had 
gradually issued in the triumph of the old religion, which had 
learned some useful lessons in the conflict. It had been dis- 
covered that an ignorant priesthood could not retain its hold 
on the people, and that they must support their faith by argu- 
ment, and not merely by a display of ecclesiastical authority. 
The religious earnestness which had been excited by contro- 
versy still subsisted, and preachers of high endowments grati- 
fied it by their prelections. The nation retained also the 
energy which had been elicited by civil commotion, though 
its troubles were over; and the political ascendancy of France 
among the kingdoms of Europe imparted buoyancy and free- 
dom to every spirit. 

But of all the influences which contributed to perfect the 

(176) 



LOUIS XIV. 177 

literature of France in the latter half of the seventeenth 
century, none appeared to be so general and powerful as that 
of the monarch himself;, whether by his immediate influence 
rendering his court the centre of knowledge, or that of his 
government imparting a general feeling of security to those 
who lived under it. ^^ A single genius/' says Nisard, ^' may 
arise in the midst of a stormy period, but only a good govern- 
ment gives birth to numbers of eminent men in various walks, 
and impresses on the most diversified works a common charac- 
ter of greatness, order, and unity.'' 

On the other hand, those who little admire so absolute a 
sway as that of Louis, remind us — and not without truth — 
that the men who gave eclat to this period were formed in the 
more troublous times that preceded it. Their genius had 
taken root and sprung up in the storm of civil and religious 
war, but opened and bloomed in the sunshine of a powerful 
and peaceful monarchy. 

It must be remembered what was the condition of France 
when Louis XIV. assumed the government. The supreme 
power had been swayed by prime-ministers, before whom men 
of high birth and superior talent found it hard to bend in 
servitude, and the only alternative was revolt. But now the 
sovereign had announced his resolution to reign himself, and 
every one felt his master. A powerful king had been the 
common want : the bourgeoisie wanted it against the nobility ; 
the inferior nobility against the higher; the people against 
oppression and civil war. Royalty was the ideal of the 
seventeenth century ; and if the disorders of the Fronde had 
disposed the nation to entertain it with fondness, the magnifi- 
cence of Le Grand Monarque rendered it perfectly intoxica- 
ting. The predominance of the sovereign became the most 
prominent feature in the social character of the age, and the 
whole circle of the literature bears its impress. The univer- 
sal admiration of litterateurs for Louis XIV. was not a con« 



178 FRENCH LITERATURE, 

spiracy of flattery, but the strong impression whicli tKe great 
writers of the age received, in common with the whole body 
of the people, of the greatness of their king and country; 
" since, under this king,'' as Bossuet says, " France learned 
to know herself/' Racine, one of the most upright of these 
litterateurs, depicts himself as '^a man spending his life in 
thinking of the king, in learning the great actions of the 
king; a man to whom God has given grace not to blush 
either for the king or the gospel/' No wonder that the appre- 
hension of having lost the favor of his sovereign hastened 
his death. If a man lost the royal favor in those days, he 
lost his function in the state, and his place in society; for 
there was no rank then but what was held from the prince. 
We smile at the weakness of Racine; but if there is one 
among us who has passed his days in thinking of a great 
man, and who, after having all his life admired an ideal in a 
person beloved, has now lost the good graces of that person 
without losing his faith in the ideal, let him judge whether 
the desperation of Racine was unworthy of him. 

But this was not all : Louis raised and improved in no mean 
degree the position of literary men. By granting them regu- 
lar pensions, he delivered them from servitude ; the regularity 
of the bounty making it appear as a right attached to merit, 
and not, as hitherto, the capricious recompense of well-turned 
flattery. Through the general taste, however, which the mo- 
narch contributed to difi*use, some writers were rendered abso- 
lutely independent of state reward by the public. Others 
attained this independence through the operation of the laws 
which raised them to the high offices of the state, and thus 
secured them a competence. 

It is to be remarked, that this was an age of order and spe- 
cialty in literature, in this respect strikingly unlike that which 
followed it. Each writer had his own sphere, and seldom 
quitted it for any other ; the only remarkable exceptions being 



DIRECT INFLUENCE OF THE KING. 179 

Bossuet and Fenelon, who, from their peculiar position, were 
led to exercise some variety of talent. 

It is convenient, that in displaying the literary riches of 
this age, we should classify them according to their subjects, 
and treat successively of tragedy, comedy, satirical and other 
poetry; of pulpit and forensic eloquence; of history, biogra- 
phy, philosophy, romance, and letter- writing. But then we 
shall find that the principal authors present themselves each 
under one of these heads : Racine with tragedy; Moli^re with 
comedy; Boileau with satirical and mock-heroic poetry; La 
Fontaine with narrative poetry; Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and 
Massillon, with pulpit eloquence; Patru, Pelisson, and some 
others, with that of the bar; Bossuet, De Retz, and St. Simon, 
with history and memoirs; Rochefoucauld and La Bruyere 
with moral philosophy; Fenelon and Madame de Lafayette 
with romance; and Madame de Sevigne with letter- writing. 

The personal influence of the king was most marked on pul- 
pit eloquence and dramatie poetry, both of which he assidu- 
ously attended. Other branches found less favor, from the 
king's dislike to those who chiefly treated them. The recol- 
lections of the Fronde had left in his mind a distrust of 
Rochefoucauld. A similar feeling of political jealousy, with 
a thorough hatred of hel esprit^ especially in a woman, pre- 
vented him from appreciating Madame de Sevigne ; and he 
seems not even to have observed La Bruyere in his modest 
functions as teacher of history to the Duke of Burgundy. He 
had no taste for the pure mental speculations of Malebranche 
or Fenelon ; and in metaphysics, as in religion, had little pa- 
tience for what was beyond the ordinary good sense of ordinary 
individuals. The same hatred of excess rendered him equally 
the enemy of refiners and freethinkers ; so that the like exile 
fell to the lot of Arnauld and Bayle, the one carrying to the 
extreme the doctrines of grace, and the other those of sceptical 
inquiry. Nor did he relish the excessive simplicity of La 



180 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Fontaine, or deem that his talent was a sufficient ^mpen«**- 
tion for his slovenly manners and inaptitude for court-life. 
Concerning all these it may be said, that they flourished with 
and by, as well as in the age of Louis XIV., but rather in 
spite of his personal influence than under its favor. 



XL— TRAGEDY. 



RACINE, HIS LIFE AND WORKS — ANALYSIS OP ATHALIB — MINOR TRAGIC 
AUTHORS OF THIS PERIOD — THE OPERA. 

In introducing the most classic of French tragedians* to the 
English reader, we would bespeak his indulgence by some ob- 
servations of an eminent modern critic on the difierence between 
the French drama and our own. 

" It will be universally admitted, that in tragic perform- 
ances nothing can be more distinctly different than the laws 
which regulate the French and English stage. The dissimi- 
larity is so great that a native of either country, however can- 
did or liberal, must have studied with some attention the lite- 
rature of the other, to enable him not merely to relish, but 
even to endure the tragedies of the neighboring kingdom. A 
Parisian critic would be shocked at the representation of Ham- 
let au naturel ; and the most patient spectator in the Drury 
Lane audience would incur some risk of dislocating his jaws 
with yawning during the representation of a chef-d'oeuvre of 
Racine or Corneille. This difference betwixt the taste of two 
highly civilized nations is not surprising, when we consider 
that the English tragedy existed a hundred years at least . 

* The fullest and most authentic biography of Racine is from the pen of 
his son, Louis Racine. A brief sketch of his life is to be found in Lardoer's 
Cabinet Cyclopedia. 



FRENCH AND ENGLISH DRAMA. 181 

before the French, and is therefore censured by them as 
partaking, to a certain extent, of the barbarity and gross- 
ness of the age of Queen Elizabeth. The two great tragedians 
of France, on the contrary, had the task of entertaining a 
polished and highly ceremonious court, whose judgment was at 
least as fastidious as it was correct, and in whose eyes a breach 
of etiquette was a more formidable crime than any deficiency 
in spirit or genius. 

"Thus the English stage exhibited in word and in action 
^ every change of many-colored life,' mingled the tragic with 
the comic, the ludicrous with the horrible, seized by storm on 
the applause of the half-startled, half-affrighted audience, and 
presented to the judgment, like Salvator's landscapes to the 
eye, a chaos of the wonderful mixed with the grotesque, agi- 
tating the passions too strongly to leave time to inquire whether 
the rules of critical taste were not frequently violated. The 
French stage, on the other hand, is carefully and exactly 
limited by a sense of decorum, which, exercised in its rigor, 
may be called the tyranny of taste. It is not lawful to please, 
says this dramatic code, unless by observance of certain arbi- 
trary rules ; or to create a deeper or more intense interest than 
a strict obedience to the precepts of Aristotle and his modern 
commentators will permit. The English authors have, there- 
fore, preferred exhibiting striking incidents and extraordinary 
characters, placed in violent contrast, at the risk of shocking 
probability ; and their keenest partisans must own that they 
have been often absurd when they aimed at being sublime. 
The French, on the other hand, limiting themselves in gene- 
ral to long dramatic dialogues, in which passion is rather 
analyzed than displayed, have sometimes become tedious by a 
display of ingenuity where the spectator expected touches of 
feeling. It follows, as a matter of course, that each country, 
partial to the merits of its own style of amusement, and struck 
with the faults which belong to a cast of composition so ex- 
16 



182 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

tremely different, is as severe in censuring the foreign stage as 
it is indulgent of judging of its own.*' 

Jean Racine, born at Ferte-Milon in 1639, was left an 
orphan in his childhood, and educated at the celebrated insti- 
tution of Port Royal, where he imbibed not only a taste for 
literature and serious study, but that deeply religious feeling 
which characterized without exception every great author of 
the great age. The docility of the young Racine wa5 equalled 
only by his ardor for study. Lancelot, who had specially un- 
dertaken to teach him Greek, caught him one day reading the 
romance of Theagenes and Charicles^ took it from him, and 
burned it. The lad procured another copy, and after a short 
time surrendered it to his tutor, telling him that he might 
burn that one too, for he had learned it by heart. His first 
essay in poetry — an ode composed for the nuptials of Louis 
XIV. — brought him under the notice of Chapelain, the king^s 
adviser in these matters, and procured for him a pension of 
600 livres. A second ode introduced him to the acquaint- 
ance of Boileau, which proved highly useful as well as honor- 
able, and gave him advantages which had never fallen to the 
lot of Corneille. A little before, he had made the acquaint- 
ance of Moliere, who suggested the plan of the Theha'ule, his 
first drama. That of Alexandre followed, and both obtained 
some success. They were, however, but feeble imitations of 
the works of Corneille, who advised the young author to at- 
tempt no more tragedy. Racine replied by producing Andro^ 
maque, which, though not the most perfect of his works, was 
that which produced the most powerful effect on the stage. 
The poet had discovered a new vein ; he had found out that 
sympathy was a more powerful and durable source of tragic 
effect than admiration ; and he had, accordingly, exercised all 
the powers of his genius in a truthful expression of feeling 
and character, and in thrilling alternations of hope and fear. 



RACINE. 1B3 

of anger and pity. Andromaque was followed almost every 
year by a new work of similar character. But now Racine 
surprised the public by an excursion into the domain of Mo- 
li^re. Les Plaid eurs, a comedy imitated from the Wasps of 
Aristophanes, is slender in the plot, but natural, truthful, 
and pleasing. It was coldly received at Paris, but it proved 
highly successful at Versailles, which so delighted the players, 
that on their return to the city, they came to awake Racine at 
midnight, and communicate the welcome tidings. The noise 
of the carriages, and the tumult of the visiters in the Rue des 
Marais, made the neighbors believe that public justice had 
avenged itself on the author of Les Plaidexirs, and that he 
was taken to the Bastille. All Paris rung with the news the 
following day, and the mistake being discovered, gave addi- 
tional effect to the intelligence that the comedy had found 
acceptance at court. Of course it was afterwards completely 
successful in the city. Sometime afterwards, the celebrated 
Henrietta of England induced Racine and Corneille, unknown 
to each other, to produce a tragedy on Berenice, in order to 
test the comparative powers of these illustrious rivals. The 
two pieces were represented towards the end of the year 1670; 
that of Corneille at the Palais-Royal by Moli^^re^s company; 
that of Racine at the Hotel de Bourgogne. Corneille's proved 
a failure, but Racine's enjoyed thirty representations in suc- 
cession, honored by the tears of both court and city. 

In 1677, partly disgusted at seeing his Phedre hissed 
through the influence of a cabal, and partly from religious 
principle, Racine abandoned this career while yet in the full 
vigor both of his life and his genius. At first, he thought 
of devoting himself to monastic seclusion; but on maturer 
consideration, decided in favor of lighter bonds, and married 
Catherine Romanet, with whom he lived happily, and had 
seven children. In the same year he was appointed historio- 
grapher to the king, conjointly with Boileau ; and for twelve 



IM FRENCH LITERATURE. 

years tlie dramatic muse remained silent. Kacine was then 
induced by Madame de Maintenon to compose a piece, not to 
be acted on tbe Frencli boards, but in the Maison de St. Cyr, 
and by the pupils of that establishment. Madame de Main- 
tenon was of opinion that theatricals are highly useful to 
young people, not only as an exercise of memory, but as con- 
ducive to a graceful deportment and correct pronunciation. 
But after having seen the young ladies act Andromaque, she 
apprehended that such pieces were calculated to inspire them 
with improper feelings, and wrote to Racine a request that he 
would compose a moral or historical drama which should 
entirely exclude the passion of love. Esther was the result, 
and its success was prodigious. Athalie, which is considered 
the most perfect of all Racine's compositions, was composed 
with similar views, but it was destined to a widely different 
fate. Madame de Maintenon had been advised to allow no 
more theatricals at St. Cyr, and the only representation 
granted to Athalie was, that the young ladies recited it in the 
presence of the king, in a chamber of the palace at Versailles, 
without any stage, or costume other than their everyday 
dresses. The only resource of the poet was to print his work, 
but it found no readers; and Racine, discouraged by this 
second injustice, finally abandoned the drama. He continued 
to be loaded with favors by the king, who gave him a public 
office, and admitted him to his familiar society. An unfore- 
seen circumstance, however, deprived him of the royal favor. 
He was induced, by Madame de Maintenon, under promise of 
secrecy, to put on paper, in the form of a Memoire^ some views 
which he had expressed to her upon the misery that had been 
entailed on the people by the protracted war. The king got 
his hands upon the paper, and was highly offended. ^^ What !'' 
said he, ^' because he can make verses, does he think he knows 
everything ? And because he is a great poet, does he pretend 
to be a minister too?'' It seems not well agreed how far the 



RACINE. 185 

king gave practical effect to his displeasure. Racine was at 
the time laboring under a dangerous malady, and his distress 
at learning the fate of his Memoire so aggravated the disease, 
that he sank under it, and never recovered. He lingered for 
two years, and died in 1699, so fully occupied with his im- 
mortal hopes in a future world as to be careless of his earthly 
renown. He refused to revise the editions of his works which 
the booksellers were publishing, and expressed no earthly wish 
except that he might be buried at Port Royal among his early 
instructors, and at the feet of Dr. Hamon. After the destruc- 
tion of this monastery, his remains were transferred to Paris, 
and placed beside those of Pascal, in the church of St. Etienne- 
du-Mont. 

Besides numerous tragedies, Racine composed odes, epi- 
grams, and spiritual songs. By a singular combination of 
talent, he wrote almost as well in prose as in verse. His His- 
toire de la Regne de Louis XIV. ^ which remained unfinished at 
his death, was almost entirely destroyed in a conflagration at 
the house of his successor \ but there remain the Ahrege de 
V Histoire de Port Royaly some pleasing letters, and some 
Discours Academiques, among which is a eulogium on Cor- 
neille. 

The TJiedtre of Racine has had several learned commenta- 
tors, and has passed through innumerable editions. We have 
said that Athalie is the most perfect of his works. It was 
little known or appreciated till the year 1716, since which its 
reputation has continually augmented. Voltaire has pro- 
nounced it ^'Vouvrage le plus approchant de la perfection qui 
soit jamais sorti de la main des hommes.^^ Recommending 
the reader to make its acquaintance in the original, we sub- 
join an analysis, for the sake of those to whom this may be 
inconvenient. 

The subject is taken from the twenty-second and twenty- 
third chapters of the second book of Chronicles, where it is 
16* 



186 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

written, that Athaliali, to avenge the death of her son, de- 
stroyed all the seed-royal of the house of Judah; but that 
the young Joash was stolen from among the rest by his aunt, 
Jehosheba (or Josabeth), the wife of the high-priest, and hid 
with his nurse for six years in the temple. 

The first act opens in the temple, where Abner, the chief 
captain of the hosts of Judah, comes to worship, and intimates 
to Joad the high-priest, his fear that Athaliah will not long 
suffer him to minister before the altar in peace. The venera- 
ble man replies : 

Celui qui met un frein a la fureur des flots, 

Salt aussi des m^chants arreter les complots. 

Soumis avec respect a sa volonte sainte, 

Je crains Dieu, cher Abner, et n'ai point d*autre crainte. 

He then sounds Abner, who is not in the secret of the child^s 
safety, as to what he would do supposing it should turn out 
that a drop of the royal blood has escaped ; and being satisfied 
of his loyalty, desires him to return in three days, at the third 
hour of the day, and with the same ardent zeal that he now 
expresses. He then privately tells his wife that the time is 
come when the youthful king, who goes by the name of Elia- 
cin, and believes himself but a foundling, should be apprised 
of his condition, and presented to the people. Josabeth fears 
to expose her protege to the danger that would thus be incurred. 
She recalls the scene of the slaughter — 

De princes ^gorg^s la chambre etoit remplie ; 
Un poignard a la main, I'implacable Athalie 
Au carnage animoit ses barbares soldats, 
Et poursuivoit le cours de ses assassinats. 
Joas, laiss^ pour mort, frappa soudain ma vue. 
Je me figure encor sa nourrice 6perdue, 
Qui devant les bourreaux s'^toit jett^e en vain, 
Et foible le tenoit renvers^ sur son sein. 



RACINE. 187 

Je le pris tout sanglant ; et, baignant son visage, 
Mes pleurs du sentiment lui rendirent I'usage. 
Et, soit frajeur encore, ou pour me caresser, 
De ses bras innocents je me sentis presser. 

But Joad confides in Divine succor — 

Et comptez-vous pour rien Dieu qui combat pour nous ? 
Dieu, qui de I'orphelin protege I'innocence, 
Et fait dans la foiblesse ^clater sa puissance ? 

In tlie second act, Athaliah, despite the expostulations of 
Abner, Joad, and even of his own attendants, enters the holy 
place where the priests are ministering, attended by Zachariah, 
the son of Joad, and Eliacin (Joash), in the garb of acolytes. 
Being persuaded to retire, she relates to Abner and Mathan, 
who follow her, the fearful dream which prompted her visit — 

Ma m^re Jezabel devant moi s'est montr^e, 
Comme au jour de sa mort pompeusement par^e. 
Ses malheurs n'avoient point abattu sa fiert4 ; 
Meme elle avoit encor cet ^clat emprunt^, 
Dont elle eut soin de peindre et d'orner son visage, 
Pour r^parer des ans I'irreparable outrage. 
Tremble, m'a-t-elle dit, fille digne de moi ; 
Le cruel Dieu des Juifs I'emporte aussi sur toi ; 
Je te plains de tomber dans ses mains redoutables. 
Ma fille. En achevant ces mots ^pouvantables, 
Son ombre vers mon lit a paru se baisser ; 
Et moi, je lui tendois les mains pour I'embrasser. 
Mais je n'ai plus trouv^ qu'un horrible melange 
D'os et de chair meurtris et train^s dans la fange, 
Des lambeaux pleins de sang et des membres affreux, 
Que des chiens d^vorants se disputoient entre eux. 

She adds, that in the confusion of her ideas she saw a child in 
the vestments of the Hebrew priests, aiming a sword at her 
bosom 'j that having vainly sought tranquillity by supplicating 
the priests of Baal, she had thought of visiting the temple 



188 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

and appeasing the God of the Jews, when, lo ! the very child 
she had seen in her dream was there ; she saw him distinctly, 
but he was hastily hidden away. She desires counsel as to 
what is to be done. Abner does not know who the other little 
boy may be, who, with Zachariah, attends the priests; and 
Mathan, the apostate, recommends, as the only safeguard, to 
destroy both, while Abner expostulates : — 

H^ quoi, Mathan! d'un pretre est-ce la le langage ? 
Moi, nourri dans la guerre aux horreurs du carnage, 
Des vengeances des rois ministre rigoureux, 
C'est moi qui prete ici ma voix aux malheureux. 
Et vous, qui leur devez des entrailles de pere, 
Vous, ministre de paix dans les temps de colore, 
Couvrant d'un zele faux votre ressentiment, 
Le sang a votre gre coule trop lentement ! 

Mathan suggests the possibility that this child may be edu- 
cating in the temple to personate a prince of the house of 
Judah; and Athaliah determines to see him again, and con- 
verse with him alone. 

Laissez-moi, cher Mathan, le voir, Tinterroger. 
Vous, cependant, allez ; et, sans jeter d'alarmes, 
A tous mes Tyriens faites prendre les arnies. 

Returning to the temple, she examines the children, and recog- 
nises him whom she fears. 

Athaliah {Pointing to Joash). Epouse de Joad, est-ce la votre fils? 
Josaheth [Pointing to Zachariah). Qui ? Lui, Madame ? 

Athal. Lui? 

Josab. Je ne suis point sa m^re. 
(^Pointing to Zachariah), Voila mon fils. 

Athal. (To Joash). Et vous, quel est done votre p^re ? 
Jeune enfant, ropondez. 

Josab. Le ciel jusqu'aujourd'hui . . . 
Athal. {To Josab.) Pourquoi vous pressez-vous de r^pondre pour lui? 
C*est ^ lui de parler. 



^^/*i^?f RACINE. 189 

Josah. Dans un age si tendre 
Quel ^claircissement en pouvez-vous attendre ? 

Athal. Get age est innocent. Son ingenuite 
N'altere point encor la simple v^rit^. 
Laissez-le s'expliquer sur tout ce qui le touche. 

Josah. (Aside). Daigne mettre, grand Dieu ! ta sagesse en sa bouche. 

Athal. Comment vous nommez-vous ? 

Joash. J'ai nom Eliacin. 

Athal, Votre p^re ? 

Joash. Je suis, dit-on, un orphelin, 
Entre les bras de Dieu jet^ d^s ma naissance, 
Et qui de mes parents n'eus jamais connaissance. 

* * * * 

Athal. Mais de vos premiers ans quelles mains ont pris soin ? 

Joash. Dieu laissa-t-il jamais ses enfants au besoin ? 
Aux petits des oiseaux il donne leur pature, 
Et sa bont^ s'etend sur toute la nature. 
Tons les jours je I'invoque ; et d'un soin paternel, 
II me nourrit des dons offerts sur son autel. 

Athal. Quel prodige nouveau me trouble et m'embarrasse ! 
La douceur de sa voix, son enfance, sa grace, 
Font insensiblement a mon inimitie 
Succ6der Je serois sensible a la piti^ ! 

She further questions him as to his employments and recrea- 
tions, which he describes as consisting in aiding in the temple 
worship, and learning the Divine law. She invites him to 
quit such sombre occupations, and share the pleasures of her 
palace as her adopted son; but he refuses, and she retires 
timid, irresolute, not knowing what course to take. 

Meanwhile, Joad has determined to reveal the secret ; but 
first entering the temple to seek a blessing, the spirit of pro- 
phecy comes upon him. 

Mais d'oii vient que mon coeur fr^mit d'un saint effroi ? 
Est-ce I'Esprit divin qui s'empare de moi ? 
C'est lui-meme : il m'echauffe; il parle ; mes yeux s'ouvrent, 
Et les siecles obscurs devant moi se d^couvrent. 



190 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Ldvites, de vos sons pretez-moi les accords, 

Et de vos mouvements secondez mes transports. 

The whole of this prophecy is in the highest style of poetry. 
It is doubtful if there is any lyric in the language to compare 
with these lines — 

Quelle Jerusalem nouvelle 
Sort du fond du desert, brillante de clart^s, 
Et porte sur le front une marque immortelle ? 

Peuples de la terre, chantez : 
Jerusalem renait plus charmante et plus belle. 

B'ou lui viennent de tous cotes 
Ces enfants qu'en son sein elle n'a point port^s ? 
L^ve, Jerusalem, l^ve ta tete alti^re. 
Regarde tous ces rois de ta gloire ^tonn^s. 
Les rois des nations, devant toi prostern^s, 

De tes pieds baisent la poussiere. 
Les peuples a I'envi marchent a ta lumiere. 
Heureux qui, pour Sion, d'une sainte ferveur 

Sentira son ame embras^e ! 

Cieux, r^pandez votre ros^e, 
Et que la terre enfante son sauveur. 

In the next act, the royal diadem, the sword of David, and 
the book of the law, are solemnly brought out, to the amaze- 
ment of the little Joash. 

Joash. Princesse, quel est done ce spectacle nouveau ? 
Pourquoi ce livre saint, ce glaive, ce bandeau ? 
Depuis que le Seigneur m'a re9U dans son temple, 
D'un semblable appareil je n'ai point vu d'exemple. 

Josabeth evades the question, and tries the crown on his head, 

Joash. Vous voulez essayer ce bandeau sur mon front? 
Ah, Princesse! gardez d'en profaner la gloire; 
Du roi qui I'a port6 respectez la meraoire. 
Un malheureux enfant, aux ours abandonn^ .... 

Josab. Laissez, mon fils, je fais ce qui m'est ordonn^. 



RACINE. 191 

Joash. Mais j'entends les sanglots sortir de votre bouche. 
Princesse, vous pleurez ! quelle piti^ vous touche ? 

Josabeth, overcome by her feelings, leaves him alone with 
Joad, who questions him as to the duties of a king, and if he 
were one, which king he would like to resemble. The child 
names David, the man after God's own heart, as his beau-ideal. 
Whereupon the high-priest prostrates himself at his feet. 

Joash. Mon pere, en quel ^tat vous vois-je devant moi ? 
Joad. Je vous rends le respect que je dois a mon roi ; 
De votre aieul David, Joas, rendez-vous digne. 
Joash. Joas ! Moi ? 

Joad now presents the young king to the priests and Levites ; 
he takes the oath on the sacred book, and is anointed with the 
holy oil. 

But Abner comes to the temple, charged with a demand 
from the queen, that this mysterious child be surrendered as a 
hostage, with some treasure of gold said to be concealed in the 
holy place. He advises that this be conceded, as the only 
means of saving the temple and all that belong to it from fire 
and sword. Joad admits that he has charge of a secret trea- 
sure, and promises that if it must be discovered to the queen, 
the doors shall be opened to her, rather than any carnage or 
pillage take place; and then Abner shall be judge whether 
this treasure shall be put in her power. While Abner departs 
to bring the queen, Joab places the Levites in ambuscade 
about the temple, and addresses the youthful Joash : — 

Roi, je crois qu'a vos voeux cet espoir est permis, 

Venez voir a vos pieds tomber vos ennemis. 

Celie dont la fureur poursuivit votre enfance, 

Vers ces lieux a grands pas pour vous perdre s'avance. 

Mais ne la craignez point. Songez qu'autour de vous 

L'ange exterminateur est debout avec nous. 

He places him on his throne, draws a curtain before him, and 



192 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

waits the event. Presently Athaliah comes to demand the 
promised price of safety — the child and the treasure. Where- 
upon Joad draws the curtain, and reveals Joash on the throne ; 
the nurse kneeling on his right, Azarias standing with a drawn 
eword on his left, the children of the high-priest kneeling on 
the steps, and a body of armed Levites surrounding. Joad 
challenges the queen to recognise the youthful sovereign by 
the scars of her own poniard. 

Joad. Connais-tu I'heritier du plus saint des monarques, 
Reine ? De ton poignard connais du moins ces marques. 
Voila ton roi, ton fils, le fils d'Okosias. 
Peuples, et vous, Abner, reconnaissez Joas. 

Ahner, Ciel ! 

Athal. {To Joad). Perfide ! 

Joad. Vois-tu cette Juive fidele, 
Dont tu sais bien qu'alors il su9oit la mamelle ? 
II fut par Josabeth a ta rage enleve. 
Ce temple le reyut, et Dieu I'a conserve. 
Des tresors de David voila ce qui me reste. 

Athaliah calls on her soldiers to deliver her from this odious 
phantom, and Joad cries aloud : 

Soldats du Dieu vivant, defendez votre roi ! 
Immediately the temple appears filled with armed Levites. 

Athal. Oil suis-je? trahison! 6 reine infortun^e ! 
D'armes et d'ennemis je suis environnde ! 

Joad. Tes yeux cherchent en vain ; tu ne peux echapper, 
Et Dieu de toutes parts a su fenvelopper. 
Ce Dieu, que tu bravois, en nos mains t'a livree. 
Rends-lui compte du sang dont tu t'es enivrde. 

Athal Quoi ! la peur a glacd mes indignes soldats ? 
Lache Abner, dans quel pidge as-tu conduit mes pas ? 

Ahner. Reine, Dieu m'est t<3moin. . . . 

Athal. Laisse-la ton Dieu, traitre, 
Et venge-moi. 

Abner (Casting himself at the feet of Joash). Sur qui? Sur 
Joas! Kur mon maitre! 



RACINE. 193 

As Athaliali departs, she exciaims : 

Dieu des Juifs, tu I'emportes ! 
Oui, c'est Joas, je cherche en vain a me tromper ; 
Je reconnais I'endroit oil je le fis frapper. 
Je vols d'Ochosias etleport et le geste ; 
Tout me retrace enfin un sang que je deteste. 

The Levites follow^ and slay her as soon as she gets beyond the 
precincts of the holy place. The whole is wound up by the 
lesson which Joad impresses on the youthful monarch : — • 

Par cette fin terrible, et due a ses forfaits, 
Apprenez, roi des Juifs, et n'oubiiez jamais 
Que les rois dans le ciel ont un juge severe, 
L'innocence un vengeur, et I'orphelin un pere. 

The choruses which Racine employed in imitation of his 
Greek models are not only beautiful, but introduced with sin- 
gular skill, and made to express such fears or hopes or prayers 
as naturally connect each act with that which follows. Thus 
the chorus which closes the first act, celebrates the greatness 
and goodness of the God of Israel; recalls some striking 
examples of his interference, and thus aids the work of Joad 
in strengthening the faith of Abner, and raising the courage 
of Josabeth. At the end of the second act, the choir sing of the 
iniquity of the queen, the profanity of the adherents of Baal, 
and their certain destruction. At the end of the third act, 
they chant the hopes and fears of Sion in connexion with the 
prophetic strains of the high-priest. And at the close of the 
fourth act, when all the preparations are made, a battle-hymn 
comes in appropriately to invoke divine assistance. 

The tragedies of Racine are more elegant than those of 

Corneille, though less bold and striking. Corneille's principal 

characters are all heroes and heroines, thrown into situations 

of extremity, and displaying strength of mind superior to their 

17 



194 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

position. Racine's characters are men, not heroes — men such 
as they are^ not such as they might possibly be. 

France produced no other tragic dramatists of the first class 
in this age. Among those of secondary merit, Thomas Cor- 
NEILLE (1623-1709), brother of the great poet; Campistron 
(1656-1723), a feeble imitator of Racine; and Lafosse 
(1653-1708), are the only names worthy of mention. 

Somewhat later, Crebillon (1674-1752) found a place in 
the same succession, by such wild tragedies as Atree, Electre, 
and Rhadamisfey which introduced a new element — that of 
terror — as a source of tragic effect. This author had passed 
his days in retirement at a distance from Paris, and being 
unacquainted with the ancient models, drew chiefly on modern 
authors. 

Cardinal Mazarin had brought from Italy the Opera, or 
lyric tragedy, which was cultivated with success by Quinault 
(1635-1688). He is said to have ^Haken the bones out of 
the French language,^' by cultivating an art in which thought, 
incident, and dialogue are made secondary to the development 
of tender and voluptuous feeling ; and having prosecuted his 
work in a spirit which renders it as dangerous as it is attractive. 



X I L— C M E D Y. 



REMARKS ON FRENCH COMEDY — MOLIERE S LIFE AND WORKS — LES PRE- 
CIEUSES RIDICULES — SCENE FROM TARTUFE — LE MISANTHROPE — DEATH 
OF MOLIERE — MINOR COMIC DRAMATISTS OF THIS AGE, 

*' The difference in the national tastes of France and Eng- 
land, '' says the writer formerly quoted, '^ so very remarkable 
when we compare the tragedies of the two covintries, is much 
less conspicuous in their comic dramas; where, setting aside 



FRENCH COMEDY. 195 

tlieir emancipation from the tenets of tte Stagyrite, the Eng- 
lish comic writers do or ought to propose to themselves the 
same object with the French of the same class. As a proof 
of this, we may remark, that very few French tragedies have 
ever been translated, and of these still fewer have become per- 
manently popular, or have been reckoned stock-plays ; whereas 
the English authors, from the age of the great man of whom 
we are about to speak, down to the present day, have been in 
the habit of transferring to the British stage almost all the 
comedies that have been well received in France.'' 

The comedy of intrigue, borrowed from Spain, and turning 
upon disguises, scaling-ladders, dark-lanterns, and trap- doors, 
to help or hinder the designs of personages who were types, 
not of individual character, but of certain classes — as lawyers, 
doctors, lovers, confidants — such was the comic drama which 
occupied the French stage till the middle of the seventeenth 
century, relieved occasionally by the lively absurdity of the 
Italian farce. The great Corneille, "the father of modern 
tragedy,^' had made some approach to true comedy also in Le 
Menteur, His brother Thomas, however, had returned to the 
old school, which 

*^ Filled tlie stage with all the crowd 
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued, 
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
Whose deepest plot is how to break folks' noses." 

It was reserved for Moliere to demolish all this childishness, 
and enthrone the true Thalia on the French stage. 

Six years had elapsed since the departure of Shakspeare, 
who had opened genuine sources of comedy, and Cervantes, 
who had withal withered and scattered from the field the 
flowers of chivalry, when this brother genius was born in 
1622, at once the Terence and the Shakspeare of France. 
Like Shakspeare, he was both an author and an actor, and his 
celebrity demands that we briefly trace his progress. 



196 FRENCH LITERATUKE. 

Moliere's real name was Jean Baptiste Poquelin; Lis 
progenitors on both sides, a race of respectable burghers, who 
dealt in tapestry and carpets. The father of our poet enjoyed 
the privilege of being purveyor of these articles to the king — 
Louis XIII. — and also of serving him as valet-de-chambre. 
To succeed to such honor was the destination of Jean Baptiste; 
but his tastes being utterly averse to business, he pleaded, and 
with success, for a more liberal education, and was sent, accord- 
ingly, to the Jesuits' College at Clermont, now known as the 
College of Louis le Griand. It is believed that on the comple- 
tion of this course he began the study of law, and that he was 
actually admitted to the bar ; but instead of frequenting the 
legal courts, he assiduously attended such theatricals as then 
amused the metropolis. Finally, he placed himself at the 
head of a group of young men, who began by acting plays for 
mere amusement, and ended by performing with a view to 
emolument. 

Moliere had now embraced a profession infamous in the eye 
of the law, involving excommunication from the church, and 
deeply degrading in the view of society. His relatives disowned 
him, and erased his name from the family-tree : he adopted 
that of Moliere, and set out with his company to travel 
through the provinces. Little is known of him during the 
years thus spent, from 1646 till 1658, when he returned to 
Paris, and through the influence of the Prince of Gonti ob- 
tained royal license to open a theatre in emulation of that of 
the H5tel de Bourgogne. The pieces he had already composed 
for his company and acted in the provinces, were here received 
with considerable favor ; but all were eclipsed in the following 
year by the appearance of Les Pr4cieuses Ridicules, the first 
of those numerous comedies in which the gifted poet assailed 
the follies of his age, and, according to the precept of Horace, 
castigat ridendo mores. The object of this satire was the 
system of solemn sentimentality which at this time was consi- 



MOLIERE. 197 

dered tlie perfection of elegance. It will be remembered tbat 
there existed at Paris a coterie of fashionable women, who 
pretended to the most exalted refinement both of feeling and 
expression, and that these were waited upon and worshipped 
by a set of nobles and litterateurs, who used towards them a 
peculiar strain of high-flown pedantic gallantry, like that which 
was formerly the mode in England, when every maid of honor 
spoke the affected jargon called euphuism.* 

These ladies adopted fictitious names for themselves, and 
gave enigmatical ones to the commonest things. A night-cap 
was called le complice innocent de mensonge ; a chaplet, une 
chaine spiritueUe; water, VJiumeur celeste ; thieves, les braves 
incommodes; and a disdainful smile, un houillon d'orgeuiL 
The ladies lavished upon each other the most tender appella- 
tions, as though in contrast to the frigid tone in which the 
platonism of the Hotel required them to address the gentle- 
men of their circle. Ma chere, ma precieuscj were the terms 
most frequently used by the leaders of this world of folly ; 
and a precieuse came to be synonymous with a lady of the 
clique; hence the title of Moliere's comedy. In this cele- 
brated piece, two females, the daughter and niece of a worthy 
burgess called Gorgibus, are represented as having become in- 
fected with this false wit and sentimentality, and having 
adopted the sonorous names of Aminte and Polixene, with all 
the jargon belonging to the school we have described. Setting 
themselves up as precieuses of the highest order, they enter- 
tain, of course, a sovereign contempt for honest Grorgibus, 
whose distress, perplexity, and resentment are exti^eme when 
he finds the young ladies habitually talking in a style which 
he cannot comprehend, and acting in a manner that leads him 
to doubt their sanity of mind. And now two gentlemen, 
approved by Gorgibus as suitable matches for his damsels, are 
rejected by them with such extremity of scorn, that they de- 
termine to avenge themselves. This they do by causing their 

* See pp. 150-2. 
17 '^ 



198 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

two valets — impudent, conceited coxcombs, of course — to be 
introduced to Aminte and Polixene as men of rank and 
fasliion. The precieuses mistake tbe extravagant finery, tbe 
second-hand airs, and the vulgar impudence of the Marquis 
de Mascarille, and the Vicomte de Jodelet, for the acme of 
wit and gallantry. The discovery of the mistake, and the 
shame and confusion with which the unfortunate sentimen- 
talists are overwhelmed, form the diverting conclusion of the 
drama. 

The piece was received with unanimous applause. An old 
man starting up in the parterre, exclaimed : ^^ Courage, 
Moliere ; this is true comedy V^ The precieuses themselves 
yielded to the rebuke. '' Leaving the theatre,'^ says Menage, 
a poetical member of the circle, '' I took Monsieur Chapelain 
by the hand, and said : ^ We have been used to approve of all 
the follies so wittily satirized in this piece ; but believe me, as 
St. Remi said to King Clovis, " We must burn what we have 
adored, and adore what we have burned/ ^' It happened as I 
predicted ; and we gave up this bombastic nonsense from the 
time of the first representation. '' A more signal victory could 
not have been gained by a comic poet ; and the author per- 
ceiving that he had found the true vein, declared himself re- 
solved henceforth to study human society more, and Terence 
and Plautus less. 

In pursuance of this resolution, he composed comedy after 
comedy, consisting of true pictures of the follies of society, 
idealized and grouped by the fancy, but faithful to nature 
throughout. 

The splendors of the reign of Louis XIV. were now (1661) 
beginning to shine out in all their brilliancy. The first attempt, 
however, at a fete superior in splendor, originality, and beauty, 
to anything that modern Europe had yet seen, was made, not 
by the king himself, but by Fouquet, the financial minister. 
Jn an evil hour for himself, this man obtained permission to 



MOLIERE. 199 

entertain royalty at his chateau of Vaux, laid under contribu- 
tion all tlie taste and talent within his reach, and exhausted 
every species of incense which could be offered to a royal idol. 
The beautiful Bejart, whom Moliere afterwards married, ap- 
peared as a Naiad, and delivered an elegant compliment, com- 
posed by Pelisson ; while Moliere, besides repeating his Ecole 
des Maris, composed and performed pieces which none but 
himself could have invented. Among other things, was a 
magnificent ballet, and a slight sketch, called Les Fdcheux, 
consisting of a series of detached scenes, to be acted during 
the intervals while the dancers were changing their dresses 
and characters for the different scenes of the ballet. In Les 
Fdcheux, a lover, who has an interview with his mistress, is re- 
presented as interrupted by a succession of fdcheux (^^ bores,'') 
who come intruding their company and their follies upon him. 
A novel kind of amusement thus added intellectual pleasures 
to those of luxury and feasting ; and it is recorded, as an in- 
stance of Moli^re's readiness, that the king having suggested 
an addition to the Fdcheux in the character of a devoted 
sportsman relating the details of a hunting-match, Moliere 
contrived to have this supplement ready for the following eve- 
ning, by inducing the king^s grand veneur to furnish suitable 
details. While we are on the subject of this entertainment, 
we remind the reader, as there will be more than one occasion 
to advert to it again, that it sealed the doom of Fouquet. 
The king's resentment and jealousy, already roused by the 
ingenious magnificence of his host, was raised to the highest 
pitch by seeing, in the private cabinet of the financier, a por- 
trait of Mademoiselle la Valliere, his own favorite mistress. 
Disdaining to express his real feeling, he pretended another 
cause of displeasure, alleging that Fouquet could not have 
afforded such an expenditure unless he had been guilty of 
peculation. The queen-mother's expostulations alone pre- 



200 FRENCH LITERATURE. ~ 

vented his being arrested on tlie spot, and the punishment was 
delayed till it could appear less scandalous. 

More than one of Moliere's pieces were directed against the 
ignorance of the medical faculty, which, in truth, was at this 
time deplorable. In one, he represented the doctors as ambling 
on mules through the streets, attired in an antique dress ; con- 
ducting their consultations in a barbarous Latinity, or in the 
vernacular, rendered unintelligible by scholastic formulas and 
technical terms ; each threatening the instant death of the 
patient if any but his treatment were followed ; so that the 
audience was inclined to agree with Lisette, that a man should 
not be said to have died of such or such a disease, but of so 
many apothecaries and physicians. 

The comedy of Le I'artufe, again, is directed against 
religious hypocrisy; and the scruples of the king, infused 
chiefly by the celebrated preachers of the day, kept it long 
suppressed, which perhaps tended to render it more perfect. 
It represents a religious professor, under the name of Tartufe, 
attracting the notice of Orgon by his singular piety ; insinuat- 
ing himself into the family, of which he sets all the members 
by the ears, and nearly succeeding in turning them all out of 
doors, when his villany is discovered, and a sovereign act of 
Le Grand Monarque sets everything right. The following is 
a good scene. Orgon, returning from the country, meets 
Cleante, his brother-in-law, in whose presence he inquires of 
Dorine, the nurse, how it has fared with the family in his 
absence : — 

Orgon. Ah I mon fr^re, bon jour ! 

Cleante. Je sortais, et j'ai joie a vous voir de retour. 
La campagne a present n'est pas beaucoup fleurie.* 

Orgon (d Cliante). Dorine. Mon beau-fr^re, atteudez, je vous prie. 
Vous voulez bien souflfrir, pour m'oter de souci, 
Que je m'informe un peu des nouvelles d'ici. 

* Tres-fleurie. 



MOLIERE. 201 

(^ Dorine.) 
Tout s'est-il, ces deux jours, pass^ de bonne sorte ? 
Qu'est-ce qu'on fait ceans, comme'* est-ce qu'on s'y porte ? 
Dorine. Madame eut, avant-hier, la fievre jusqu'au soir, 
Avec un mal de tete etrange a concevoir. 
Orgon, Et Tartufe ? 

Dorine. Tartufe ? II se porte a merveille, 
Gros et gras, le teint frais, et la bouclie vermeille. 
Orgon. Le pauvre homme ! 

Dorine. Le soir, elle eut un grand dugout, 
Et ne put, au souper, toucher a rien du tout, 
Tant sa douleur de tete etait encor cruelle. 
Organ. Et Tartufe ? 

Dorine. II soupa, lui tout seul, devant elle ; 
Et fort devotement il mangea deux perdrix, 
Avec une moitie de gigot en. hachis. 
Orgon. Le pauvre homme ! 

Dorine. La nuit se passa tout enti^re, 
Sans qu*elle put fermer un moment la paupi^re ; 
Des chaleurs I'empechaient de pouvoir sommeiller, 
Et jusqu'au jour pr^s d'elle il nous fallut veiller. 
Orgon. Et Tartufe ? 

Dorine. Press^ d'un sommeil agreable, 
II passa dans sa chambre au sortir de la table ; 
Et dans son lit bien chaud il se mit tout soudain, 
Oil, sans trouble, il dormit jusqu'au lendemain. 
Orgon. Le pauvre homme ! 

Dorine. A la fin, par nos raisons gagn^e, 
Elle se resolut a souflfrir la saign^e, 
Et le soulagement suivit tout aussitot. 
Orgon. Et Tartufe ? 

Dorine. II reprit courage comme il faut ; 
Et, contre tons Ics maux fortifiant son ame. 
Pour r^parer le sang qu'avait perdu madame. 
But, a son dejeuner, quatre grands coups de vin. 
Orgon. Le pauvre homme !f 

* Comment. 

f This was borrowed from the king himself. His majesty having one 



202 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Dorine. Tous deux se portent bien enfin, 
Et je vais a madame annoncer par avance 
La part que vous prenez a sa convalescence. (Elk sort.) 

Cleante. A votre nez, mon frere, elle se rit de vous; 
Et, sans avoir dessein de vous mettre en courroux, 
Je vous dirai, tout franc, que c'est avec justice. 
A-t-on jamais parle d'un semblable caprice ? 
Et se peut-il qu'un homme ait un charme aujourd'hui 
A vous faire oublier toutes choses pour lui ? 
Qu'apres avoir chez vous r^pare sa misere, 

Vous en veniez au point 

Orgon. Halte-la, mon beau-fr^re ; 
Vous ne connaissez pas celui dont vous parlez. 

Cleante. Je ne le connais pas, puisque vous le voulez ; 
Mais enfin, pour savoir quel homme ce pent etre .... 

Orgon. Mon frere, vous seriez charme de le connaitre, 
Et vos ravissements ne prendraient point de fin. 
C'est un homme . . . qui . . . ah ! . . . un homme . . . un homme 

enfin 
Qui suit bien ses lemons, goftte une paix profonde, 
Et comme du fumier regarde tout le monde. 
Oui, je deviens tout autre avec son entretient 
II m'enseigne a n'avoir affection pour rien ; 
De toutes amities il detache mon ame ; 
Et je verrais mourir fr^re, enfants, m^re et femme, 
Que je m'en soucierais, autant que de cela. 

Cleante. Les sentiments humains, mon fr^re, que voil^ ! 

Orgon. Ah! si vous aviez vu comme j 'en fis rencontre, 
Vous auriez pris pour lui I'amiti^ que je montre. 
Chaque jour a I'^^glise il venait, d'un air doux, 
Tout vis-a-vis de mol se mettre a deux genoux. 

day invited a bishop to join in the dinner of which he was about to partake, 
the prelate declined, alleging that he had already eaten the only meal 
which he allowed himself on a fast-day. When he had withdrawn, a 
courtier, who had scarcely suppressed .a smile, gave Louis a particular 
account of his reverence's dinner, dish after dish, in long succession, and 
all done ample justice to. As each viand was named, the king exclaimed 
Le pauvre homme with such comic variety of voice and countenance, that 
Moliere, who was present, took the hint, and transferred it to his play. 



MOLIERE. 203 

II attirait les yeux de I'assemblee entiere. 

Par Tardeur dont au ciel il poussait sa priere : 

II fiiisait des soupirs, de grands elancements, 

Et baisait humblement la terre a tous moments; 

Et, lorsque je sortais, il me devan9ait vite, 

Pour m'aller a la porte offrir de Teau benite. 

Instruit par son gar9on, qui dans tout Timitait, 

Et de son indigence, et de ce qu'il ^tait, 

Je lui faisais des dons ; mais, avec modestie, 

II me voulait toujours en rendre une partie : 

C^est trop, me disait-il, (fest trop de la moitie ; 

Je ne merite pas de vous faire pitie ; 

Et quand je refusais de le vouloir reprendre. 

Aux pauvres, a mes yeux, il allait le repandre. 

Enfin le ciel chez moi me le fit retirer, 

Et, depuis ce temps-la, tout semble y prosperer : 

Je vois qu*il reprend tout, et qu'a ma femme meme 

II prend pour mon bonneur un interet extreme ; 

II m'avertit des gens qui lui front les yeux doux, 

Et plus que moi six fois il s^en montre jaloux. 

Mais vous ne croiriez point jusqa*oii monte son zele : 

II s'impute a pech^ la moindre bagatelle ; 

Un rien presque suffit pour le scandaliser ; 

Jusque-la qu'il se vint I'autre jour accuser 

B'avoir pris une puce en faisant sa priere, 

Et de I'avoir tuee avec trop de colere. 

Thus wrote Moliere; and whether it was the absurdities of 
L'Etourdiy the seRtimental jargon of the Precieiises, the foolish 
quarrels of lovers in the Depit Amoureux, the jealousy of hus- 
bands in L^ Ecole des Maris j the fopperies of men of fashion 
in Les Fdcheux, the exposure of hypocrisy in Tartufe, the 
picture at once of dissimulation and of untractable virtue in 
the Misanthrope J the effects of mesalliances in Georges Dan din, 
the tricks of domestics in Les Fourheries de Scapin, the affec- 
tation of learning in Les Femmes Savantes, the dupes who 
take physic, and the knaves who administer it, in Le Malade 
Imaginaire — all went to prove that he possessed a falcon's eye 



204 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

for the detectioD of vice and folly in every shape, and talons 
for pouncing upon all as the natural prey of the satirist. 

Next to the truth of these pictures, the simplicity of their 
handling is considered the greatest merit; and so sensible was 
the author of this, that, as a check upon any deviation from 
it, he used to read his comedies in manuscript to his house- 
keeper, La Foret, before producing them in public. On the 
boards, he always undertook the principal character himself; 
and he was a comedian, we are told, from top to toe : by a 
step, a smile, a wink, a nod, he said more in a moment than 
words could have expressed in an hour. 

Moliere may now be considered as having attained the zenith 
of his prosperity. He was highly distinguished by the king, 
and the prime favorite of the best society in Paris ; to have 
him to read a play was sufficient to give any reunion the stamp 
of fashion as well as intellect. Fifteen years of continued 
triumph attended his literary career; years, not indeed of 
peace, for Moliere was surrounded by enemies his satires had 
made- — but years of victorious war with adversaries whom he 
despised, defied, and conquered. Notwithstanding the pro- 
verbial fickleness of kingly courts and popular audiences, 
Moliere appears never to have lost ground for a moment; his 
praise was the theme of every tongue, from that of the Grand 
Monarque to the meanest of his subjects. His income arising 
from profits as manager, actor, and author, together with his 
pension, amounted to a handsome sum; he not only enjoyed 
everything necessary for himself, but had something to spare, 
and was even profuse in his charities, especially towards silent 
and modest sufi*erers. The Great Conde used to say that he 
never conversed with him without learning something new; 
but fearing to trespass on his time by sending for him inoppor- 
tunely, he begged that Moliere would visit him when most con- 
venient to himself, simply announcing his intention beforehand. 
A few, however, in the court circle were shocked at the king's 



MOLIERE. 205 

familiarity with his valet-de-cliambre ; and some of the officers 
of the royal household deemed themselves likely to be sullied 
by the society of a comedian. It is related by Madame de 
Campan, that the king having heard of their refusing to admit 
Moliere to their table^ said to him one morning : ^^ Moliere, I'm 
told you make but bad cheer here^ and I myself feel something 
of an appetite ; let us have the en cas de nuit.^^ (This was a 
fowl which was kept in constant readiness during the night, 
lest his majesty should awake hungry.) " See/' said the 
monarch to some noblemen who entered while they were eat- 
ing, '^ I am obliged to help Moliere to eat, as my people do 
not think him good enough company for them.'' 

It was taken into consideration to elect Moliere a member 
of the French Academy, but it was judged indispensable that 
he should consent to give up acting low comedy. Boileau, 
who was charged with the negotiation, endeavored to per- 
sirade him to this ; but he refused, saying that he was attached 
to the stage by a point of honor. ^^What honor?" said 
Boileau — ^' that of painting your face and assuming the dis- 
guise of a buffoon in order to be cudgelled on a public stage?'' 
^' The point of honor," answered Moliere, '' is not to desert a 
hundred or more persons who depend upon my exertions for 
support." In his heart, indeed, he knew and felt the vexa- 
tions attached to his calling. He said to one who wished to 
follow it : ^^ It is the last resource of those who have nothing 
better. You think, perhaps, that we have our pleasures; but 
you are mistaken. Apparently, we are sought after by the 
great, and truly we minister to their amusement ; but there is 
nothing so sad as being the slaves of their caprice. The rest 
of the world look on us as the refuse of mankind, and despise 
us accordingly." Moliere, then, was not without his com- 
punctions. There was a touch of melancholy beneath his 
humor; he always regretted the sorrow he had occasioned his 
relations, and this was no way compensated by the results of 
18 



206 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

his marriage, wliicli proved as unhappy as it had been impru- 
dent. Poor man ! he thought he could have enjoyed a well- 
regulated home ; but he was unable either to fix the affections 
of his wife, or reform her morals, or even induce her to main- 
tain in the house that neatness and order without which he 
could not feel it a comfortable resort. 

Le Malade Imaginaire was the last of Moliere's works. 
The hypochondriacal victim of Esculapian roguery is, in this 
case, endowed no less with a love of medicine than with a 
spirit of frugality, and seeks to diminish in every possible way 
the cost of his fancied indisposition. The expenses of a sick- 
bed are anxiously discussed, and Argan, after taxing his 
apothecary's bill, discovers that it is no wonder he has not 
been so well for the last month, as he has swallowed fewer 
drugs by one-third than he had done the month before ; yet 
he concludes that if the apothecary does not become more 
reasonable in his charges, he cannot afford to be sick any 
longer. The determination, Je le dirai a Monsieur Pargorij 
afin qu^il mette ordre a cela, has been pronounced irresistibly 
comic. The hypochondriac next resolves to give his daughter 
in marriage to a young cub of a medical student, about to take 
his degree, so that he may have in his own family the advice 
he has hitherto paid so much for. The match is successfully 
opposed by the inclinations of the daughter, and the manoeuvres 
of her favored lover, seconded by a lively fille-de-chambre ; so 
that the pedantic young candidate for the privilege of killing 
or curing is finally dismissed. Argan is at last advised that 
the surest and cheapest way of battling with disease and its 
attendant expenses, will be to become a physician himself. At 
first he modestly suggests his want of preparatory study, and 
even of the necessary knowledge of the Latin language. But 
this is overruled by the assurance, that on putting on the robe 
and cap of a physician, he will find himself at once endowed 
with all the learning requisite for exercising the profession ; 



MOLIERE. 207 

because, say his advisers, under this garb gibberish becomes 
learning, and folly wisdom. His determination to follow their 
advice leads to the concluding interlude, which represents the 
mock-ceremony of receiving him into the Esculapian fraternity. 
It is couched in macaronic Latin, and includes an oath, by 
which the candidate pledges himself to administer the reme- 
dies prescribed by the ancients, whether right or wrong, and 
never to use any but those approved by the college. 

When the poet brought out the Malade Imaginairej he was 
himself really ill. On the fourth night, his friends would fain 
have persuaded him not to go on the boards. ^^ I must,^^ he 
replied; ^Hhere are fifty people whose daily bread depends on 
the daily receipts.'^ He acted accordingly, stifling his real 
agonies to give utterance and interest to the complaints of 
feigned or fancied sickness in the person of Argan ; repressing 
the voice of mortal suffering to affect that of a hypochondriac 
for public amusement. At length, when the closing scene 
arrived, and as a candidate for medical honors he had to 
assent to the oath administered — 

Maladus dut il crevare 
Et mori de suo malo — 

As he pronounced the word/wro (I swear), he was seized with 
a convulsive cough ; the falling of the curtain was hurried, for 
it was evident something was wrong ; and Moliere was carried 
home dying. Becoming aware of his situation, he desired that 
a priest might be sent for; and one after another was applied 
to, but refused to attend. A third came too late, for Moliere 
was insensible, and soon after expired, supported by two sisters 
of charity, who had often experienced his bounty. 

Dying thus in a state of excommunication, Moliere was not 
entitled to Christian burial according to the canons ; and the 
archbishop of Paris gave directions accordingly. The widow 
hastened to Versailles, and threw herself at the feet of the 



208 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

king, arguing, that if her husband had been guilty of crime 
in composing and acting comedies, his majesty, who had com- 
manded and witnessed his performances, must have been a 
partaker in the guilt. The king dismissed her somewhat 
abruptly, but gave private instructions to the prelate to remove 
the interdict. The funeral took place, accordingly, but with 
" maimed rites'' — that is, the body was not presented in the 
church, or honored with any funeral-chant, but was conveyed 
to a grave in the church-yard, followed by two priests in 
silence, and about a hundred friends bearing torches. An 
excited mob threatened to interrupt the humble procession ; 
but their religious misgivings were not proof against the money 
which the widow threw from the windows to appease them, 
and they quietly joined the company. 

Those who have written upon this passage of Moliere's his- 
tory, whether in French or in English, have been loud and 
wrathful in their censures of the bigotry which attempted to 
deny Christian burial to Moliere. But there was no canon-law 
more explicit, or more generally approved, than that which de- 
nied Christian burial to comedians ; and it would have been 
a singular stretch of the right of private judgment, for the 
administrators of that law to make an exception on the mere 
ground of Moliere' s superior talent — a consideration, it might 
have been argued, which only aggravated his guilt. On the 
other hand, how little the admirers of Moliere have themselves 
made of him by grumbling on the subject ! If such were his 
talents, such the excellent use he made of them, such his 
social virtues, as to hallow his profession, and entitle him to 
smile at church censure while he lived, they might surely have 
sufficed to consecrate a spot of ground for his tomb, and his 
lifeless remains need not have come begging the church's par- 
don, and craving admission within her precincts. But Moliere 
would thus have humbled himself in his latest hour had the 
opportunity been afforded. The age of Louis XIV. was not 



MOLIERE. 209 " 

tliat of haughty infidelity. It was an age of religious feeling, 
however mistaken. 

It was far otherwise in the following century. The aca- 
demicians then placed Moliere's bust in their hall, with this 
inscription — 

*'Rien ne manque a sa gloire; il manquait a la noire." 

In 1769, his eulogy was made the subject of a prize, which 
was gained by Chamfort ; and on the occasion of its recital, 
two Poquelins were hunted out from their obscurity, to fill con- 
spicuous places in the audience as kinsmen of the poet. During 
the revolution, his remains were removed from place to place, 
and it is doubtful whether they now actually repose under the 
stone erected to their honor in the cemetery of Pere la 
Chaise.* 

Le Misanthrope J Les Femmes Savanfes, and Tartufe^ are 
considered models of high comedy, and the best of Moliere's. 
Among these, some award the palm to he Misanthrope as the 
most perfect ; but Tartufe is certainly the most powerful, and 
has best sustained its popularity. 

The English drama has been enriched by versions of many 
of Moli^re^s best pieces ; but we are ashamed to say, too often 
with the gratuitous addition of a coarseness not found in the 
original. 

At a great distance from Moliere in point of merit, but the 
first after him, was the frivolous Regnard (1647-1709), 
author of Le Joueur and Le Legataire^ which exhibit a happy 
dramatic structure, and a light, free, and foolish gaiete^ but not 
the true comic of Moliere. Dancourt (1661-1726) is still 
less celebrated than Kegnard; but he exhibited one of the 

*" An interesting account of the ceremonies at the erection of a statue 
of Moliere in Paris on January 15, 1844, may be found in the Edinburgh 
Review, vol. 82. For a sketch of his life see Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
18* 



210 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

gifts of MolierG; in depicting the follies and vices of his age, 
not always, however, with due regard to decorum. The come- 
dies of DuFRESNY (1648-1724) are considered witty sketches, 
animated by delicate comic humor. Brueys (1640-1723) 
made a happy rifacimento of the old farce of 1! Avocat 
PatJielin. 



XIIL— FABLES AND TALES IN VERSE. 

LA FONTAINE, HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER — TALES — FABLES — ANECDOTES — 
HIS SICKNESS, CONVERSION, AND DEATH. 

Jean de la Fontaine,* the prince of fabalists, was born 
at Chateau-Thierry in 1621, where his father was keeper of 
the royal domains. He seems to have received little regular 
education in early life, and to have read at hap-hazard what- 
ever fell in his way. Some religious books, which had been 
lent him by a canon of Soissons, put it into his head that he 
had tastes which would suit a life of religious retirement ; and 
in 1641, he was received into the order of the Oratoire, and 
sent to the seminary of St. Magloire at Paris. But the worthy 
ecclesiastic whose books had suggested this step, had the pene- 
tration to see that his young protege had mistaken his vocation, 
and he assisted him to escape from it. On his return to the 
paternal roof, his father desired him to assume the charge of 
the domain, and to unite himself in marriage with a family 
relative. With unthinking docility. La Fontaine consented 
to both, but neglected alike his official duties and domestic 
obligations, with an innocent unconsciousness of there being 
any harm in his conduct. He was a mere child of nature — 
indolent, easy, led by the whim of the moment rather than 
governed by any ruling passion, or guided by any fixed prin 

* Sec Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 



FONTAINE. 211 

ciple. In his person he was tall, and would have been hand- 
some, but for his slouching gait and awkward carriage, while 
his well-marked features expressed that perfection of simplicity 
and good-humor which were manifest in all his actions. 

It was hearing an ode of Malherbe's recited that first re- 
vealed to La Fontaine his poetic talent, and determined him 
to cultivate it. He studied the classics of antiquity, and the 
old authors of his own country, as Rabelais, Marot, and Eacan, 
who were throughout life his favorites, as well as Ariosto, 
Boccaccio, and Macchiavelli, utterly disrelishing the fastidious 
and artificial style of the Balzacs, Voitures, and Cotins. This, 
however, was the effect of mere natural taste : Boileau had 
not yet written his art of poetry, nor Moliere exposed to ridi- 
cule the conceits and mannerisms of the Precieuses. 

The Duchess of Bouillon, happening to be spending some 
time at Chateau-Thierry, first discerned, it would seem, the 
poetical talents of La Fontaine, and advised him to cultivate 
simple and playful narration in verse. She afterwards brought 
him to Paris, and thenceforth he passed his days in her cote- 
ries, with those of Boileau and Racine, utterly forgetful of his 
home and his family, except when his pecuniary necessities 
obliged him to visit Chateau-Thierry, to sell portions of his 
property for the supply of his wants. This practice of con- 
suming the principal after the interest was gone, ' 3Ia7igeant 
son fonds apres son revenu^ as he himself expressed it, would 
soon have left him destitute, had he not become known to the 
prodigal financier Fouquet, who settled on him a liberal pen- 
sion, on condition of a quarterly quittance in verse. Such 
was the occasion of some of the most beautiful of his minor 
pieces. The disgrace of Fouquet afterwards elicited an elegy 
full of pathos, addressed to Louis XIV. on behalf of his 
fallen patron. 

Colbert, the enemy and successor of Fouquet, took away 
the pension, and La Fontaine was, during the rest of his life, 



212 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

dependent on the kindness of female discerners of merit. 
First, Henrietta of England, the daughter of Charles I., 
attached him to her suite, with a salary for which no service 
was expected. At her death, Madame de la Sabliere, per- 
ceiving his inability to manage the simplest housekeeping, 
gave him an apartment in her dwelling, supplied his wants, 
and indulged his humors for twenty years, which seem to 
have been the happiest of his life. His patroness then retir- 
ing to a convent. La Fontaine was again in danger of desti- 
tution, when Madame d'Hervart, the wife of a rich financier, 
offered him a similar asylum. Whilst on her way to make 
the proposal, she met him in the street, and said : ^^ La Fon- 
taine, will you come and live in my house ?'' — ^^ I was just 
going, madame,'' he replied, as if his doing so had been the 
simplest and most natural thing in the world. And here he 
remained the rest of his days. 

In the year 1654 — that is, several years before his emer- 
gence from the seclusion of Chateau-Thierry — he had pub- 
lished a translation of the Eunuch of Terence ] but his first 
original work was a collection of tales, undertaken to please 
the Duchess of Bouillon, and published about the year 1665. 
The sources of these tales were various. The old literature 
of France furnished abundance of materials, more even than 
was known at the time. It does not appear that La Fontaine 
had perused the fabliaux and allegorical tales of the middle 
ages, which still remained in manuscript; but he had met 
them, here and there, at second hand, in the Italian authors 
of the sixteenth century. It must be added, that these tales 
betray the licentiousness of the originals on which they were 
founded ; and there is none of them we can desire to intro- 
duce to the reader except the story of the Falcon^ which is 
in substance the same as one in the Decameron of Boccaccio. 

The story tells, that there once lived at Florence a wealthy 
noble, who loved a certain lady — loved so passionately, that 



LA FONTAINE. 213 

for her lie would have bartered his soul ; so foolishly, that he 
spent almost his all in entertainments^ of which the sole object 
was to please her. No return, however, could he obtain but 
haughty indifference. At length, his prodigal expenditure 
left him neither money nor lands, but a little farm, to which 
he retired to hide the shame of his poverty and the failure of 
his suit. Here he had only one domestic, a toothless old 
woman ; one pretty good horse in the stable, and a falcon on 
the perch. The quondam marquis wandered about the little 
spot, sacrificing to his melancholy many a partridge that was 
not to blame for the cruelty of his mistress ; while the friends 
of his prosperity said it was a pity, a great pity, but none held 
out a hand to help him. 

Meanwhile the lady had been married, and her husband 
dying, left her a sickly child, and a large estate, which she 
should inherit in case of his death. As is usually the case 
where there is a delicate nursling, the mother thought she 
never could do enough to please him, and spent her life in 
studying his humors, which only increased with the indul- 
gence. Every day, and all day, she would ask if he liked 
what he had got ; if he could fancy this thing to eat, or that 
to play with, till the boy did not know what whim to take 
next. Being mistress of a chateau, which happened to be 
within five hundred steps of Federic's retreat, the widow took 
the child there for change. He heard the fame of the falcon, 
and its wonderful achievements in capturing game ; and now 
he would have this wonderful bird ; and the more ill he be- 
came, the more the desire of possessing it increased. What 
could the fond mother do ? How could she deprive Federic 
of his only remaining treasure ? Or how, indeed, could she 
hope to obtain it ? She had shown nothing but ingratitude 
for his endeavors to win her regard. With what face could 
she go to see him, and speak to him, after being the cause of 
^.^s ruin? But, on the other hand, the child was pining 



214 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

away ; lie refused his food ; and the only way in which he 
could be beguiled into eatings was for some one to talk to him 
about the falcon. Maternal feeling at length prevailed over 
every other consideration. But we must allow the poet to tell 
the rest himself : — 

Chez Federic la dame un beau matin 

S'en va sans suite et sans nul Equipage. 

Federic prend pour un ange des cieux 

Celle qui vient d'apparaitre a ses yeux. 

Mais cependant 11 a honte, il enrage 

De n'avoir pas chez soi pour lui donner 

Tant seulement un malheureux diner. 

Le pauvre ^tat oti sa dame le treuve 

Le rend confus. II dit done a la veuve : 

" Quoi ! venir voir le plus humble de ceux 

Que vos beautes ont rendus amoureux ! 

Un villageois, un h^re, un miserable ! 

C'est trop d'honneur ; votre bont^ m'accable. 

Assurement vous alliez autre part." 

A ce propos notre veuve repart : 

**Non, non, seigneur, c'est pour vous la visite; 

Je viens manger avec vous ce matin." 

** Je n'ai," dit-il, *'cuisinier ni marmite; 

Que vous donner ?" *' N'avez-vous pas du pain ?'* 

Reprit la dame. Incontinent lui-meme 

II va chercher quelque oeuf au poulailler, 

Quelque morceau de lard en son grenier. 

Le pauvre amant, en ce besoin extreme, 

Voit son faueon, sans raisonner le prend, 

Lui tord le cou, le plume, le fricasse, 

Et I'assaisonne, et court de place en place. 

Tandis la vieille a soin du demeurant, 

Fouille au bahut, choisit pour cette fete 

Ce qu'ils avaient de linge plus honnete, 

Met le convert, va cueillir au jardin 

Du serpolet, un pen de romarin. 

Cinq ou six fleurs dont la table est jonch^e. 

Pour abr6ger, on sert la fricassee ; 



LA FONTAINE. 215 

La dame en mange, et feint d'y prendre goiit. 

Le repas fait, cette femme r^sout 

De hasarder I'incivile requete, 

Et parle ainsi : ** Je suis folle, seigneur, 

De m'en venir vous arracher le coeur. 

Encore un coup, il ne m'est guere honnete 

De demander a mon defunt amant 

L'oiseau qui fait son seul contentement ; 

Doit-il pour moi s'en priver un moment ? 

Mais excusez une mere affligee : 

Mon fils se meurt: il veut votre faucon. 

Mon precede ne merite un tel don ; 

La raison veut que je sois refusee ; 

Je ne vous ai jamais accorde rien : 

Votre repos, votre honneur, votre bien 

S'en sont alles aux plaisirs de Clitie ; 

Vous m'aimiez plus que votre propre vie. 

A cet amour j'ai tres-mal repondu ; 

Et je m'en viens, pour comble d'injustice, 

Vous demander et quoi ? c'est temps perdu: 

Votre faucon. Mais non, plutot p^risse 

L'enfant, la mfere, avec le demeurant, 

Que de vous faire un deplaisir si grand. 

Souffrez, sans plus, que cette triste m^re, 

Aimant d' amour la chose la plus ch^re 

Que jamais femme au monde puisse avoir, 

Un fils unique, une unique esperance, 

S'en vienne au moins s'acquitter du devoir 

De la nature, et pour toute allegeance 

En votre sein decharger sa douleur. 

Vous savez bien par votre experience 

Que c'est d'aimer ; vous le savez, seigneur ; 

Ainsi je crois trouver chez vous excuse." 

** H^Ias !" reprit I'amant infortune, 

** L'oiseau n'est plus ; vous en avez dine.'* / 

*• L'oiseau n'est plus !" dit la veuve confuse. 

**Non," reprit-il, "plut au ciel vous avoir 

Servi mon coeur, et qu'il eut pris la place 

De ce faucon ! n^is le sort me fait voir 



216 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Qu'il ne sera jamais en mon pouvoir 
De meriter de vous aucune grace. 
En mon pailler rien ne m'etait rest^ ; 
Depuis deux jours la bete a tout mang€. 
J'ai vu I'oiseau ; je I'ai tu^ sans peine : 
Rien coute-t-il quand on re9oit sa reine ? 
Ce que je puis pour vous est de chercher 
Un bon fau9on : ce n'est chose si rare 
Que des demain nous n'en puissions trouver." 
**Non, Fed^ric," dit-elle, "je declare 
Que c'est assez ; vous ne m'avez jamais 
De votre amour donne plus grande marque. 
Que mon fils soit enlev^ par la Parque, 
Ou que le ciel le rende a mes soubaits, 
J'aurai pour vous de la reconnaissance. 
Venez me voir, donnez m'en I'esperance: 
Encore un coup, venez nous visiter.'* 
Elle partit, non sans lui presenter 
Une main blancbe, unique temoignage 
Qu' Amour avait amolli son courage. 
Le pauvre amant prit la main, la baisa, 
Et de ses pleurs quelque temps I'arrosa. 
Deux jours aprfes, I'enfant suivit son p^re. 
Le deuil fut grand : la trop dolente m^re 
Fit dans I'abord force larmes couler. 
Mais comme il n'est peine d'ame si forte, 
Qu'il ne s'en faille ^ la fin consoler, 
Deux medecins la traiterent de sorte 
Que sa douleur eut un terme assez court ; 
L'un fut le temps, et I'autre fut I'amour. 
On ^pousa Federic en grand' pompe ; 
Non-seulement par obligation, 
Mais, qui plus est, par inclination. 
-» * * 

But tlie fame of La Fontaine mainly rests, as every one 
knows, on his Fahles^ whicli appeared successively in three 
collections. The first was published in 1668 ; the second, 
in 1678; while the third, which it considered of unequal 



LA FONTAINE. 



2ir 



power, consists almost entirely of pieces written for the young 
Duke of Burgundy, wliicli were not collected till 1694. The 
happiest efforts of La Fontaine's genius are considered to be 
embodied in the second book. In endeavoring to versify the 
subjects of the fables furnished by tradition, the poet did not 
at first venture beyond the limits of the species as exemplified 
in Esop. In the first book, we find the Grasshopper and the 
Anty the Fox and the Croio^ &c. Each fable is a short story, 
wound up with a distich or quatrain, containing a moral. At 
the end of the first book, he has attained the perfection of 
fable, properly so called, and has succeeded in introducing a 
high style of poetry, without exceeding the established bounds 
of this species. In The Old Man and his Ass, he is supposed 
to satirize Malherbe and Racan. 

In the second collection, at the seventh book, which opens 
with the fable of The Animal Sick of the Plague^ the author 
confesses that he has departed somewhat from Esop, and ex- 
tended the circumstances. Here we have Le Berger et le Roij 
Le Paysan du DanuhcyMid others, considered the most beau- 
tiful creations of this kind that have ever appeared. Though 
the subjects of the fables, as of the tales, are borrowed, the 
dress is entirely new, and show La Fontaine to have possessed 
in an eminent degree the talent for inventing details. 

LE BERGER ET LE ROL 

Deux demons a leur gre partagent notre vie, 
Et de son patrimoine ont chasse la raison ; 
Je ne vols point de coeur qui ne leur sacrifie : 
Si vous me demandez leur etat et leur nom, 
J'appelle Tun Amour, et I'autre, Ambition. 
Cette derni^re etend le plus loin son empire ; 

Car meme elle entre dans I'amour. 
Je le ferois bien voir ; mais mon but est de dire 
Comme un roi fit venir un berger a sa cour. 
Le conte est du bon temps, non du siecle oil nous sommes. 
19 



2il8 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Ce roi vit un troupeau qui couvroit tous les champs, 

Bien broutant, en bon corps, rapportant tous les ans, 

Grace aux soins du berger, de tr^s notables sommes. 

Le berger plut au roi par ces soins diligents. 

Tu merites, dit-il, d'etre pasteur de gens: 

Laisse la tes moutons, viens conduire des hommes ; 

Je te fais juge souverain. 
Voila notre berger la balance a la main. 
Quoiqu'il n'eut guere vu d'autres gens qu'un ermite, 
Son troupeau, ses matins, le loup, et puis c'est tout, 
II avoit du bon sens ; le reste vient ensuite : 

Bref, il en vint fort bien a bout. 
X'ermite son voisin accourut pour lui dire : 
Veille-je? et n'est-ce point un songe que je vols? 
Vous, favori ! vous, grand ! Defiez-vous des rois ; 
Leur faveur est glissante : on s'y trompe, et le pire 
C'est qu'il en coute cher : de pareilles erreurs 
Ne produisent jamais que d'illustres malheurs. 
Vous ne connoissez pas I'attrait qui vous engage : 
Je vous parle en ami ; craignez tout. L'autre rit ; 

Et notre ermite poursuivit : 
Voyez combien dej^ la cour vous rend peu sage. 
Je crois voir cet aveugle a qui, dans un voyage, 

Un serpent engourdi de froid 
Vient s'offrir sous la main : il le prit pour un fouet ; 
Le sien s'etoit perdu, tombant de sa ceinture. 
II rendoit grace au ciel de I'heureuse aventure, 
Quand un passant cria : Que tenez-vous ? 6 dieux ! 
Jetez cet animal traitre et pernicieux, 

Ce serpent ! — C'est un fouet. — C'est un serpent ! vous dis-je 
A me tant tourmenter quel int^ret m'oblige? 
Pr^tendez-vous garder ce tresor ? — Pourquoi non ? 
Mon fouet ^toit us^ ; j'en retrouve un fort bon: 

Vous n'en parlez que par envie. — 

L' aveugle enfin ne le crut pas ; 

II en perdit bientot la vie : 
L'animal d^gourdi piqua son homme au bras. 

Quant a vous, j'ose vous pr^dire 
Qu'il vous arrivera quelque chose de pire. 



LA FONTAINE. 2l^ 

—Eh ! que me sauroit-il arriver que la mort ? 
— Mille dugouts viendront, dit le prophete ermite. 
n en vint en effet : Termite n'eut pas tort. 
Mainte peste de €Our fit tant, par maint ressort, 
Que la candeur du juge, ainsi que son merite, 
Furent suspects au prince. On cabale, on suscite 
Accusateurs, et gens greves par ses arrets. 
De nos biens, dirent-ils, 11 s'est fait un palais. 
Le prince voulut voir ces richesses immenses. 
II ne trouva partout que mediocrite, 
Louanges du desert et de la pauvrete : 

C'etoient la ses magnificences. * 

Son fait, dit-on, consiste en des pierres de prix : 
Un grand cofi're en est plein, ferme de dix serrures. 
Lui-meme ouvrit ce coffre, et rendit bien surpris 

Tons les machineurs d'impostures. 
Le coflfre ^tant ouvert, on y vit des lambeaux, 

L'habit d'un gardeur de troupeaux, 
Petit chapeau, jupon, panetiere, houlette, 

Et, je pense, aussi sa musette. 
Doux tresors, ce dit-il, chers gages, qui jamais 
N'attirates sur yous I'envie et le mensonge, 
Je vous reprends : sortons de ces riches palais 

Comme Ton sortiroit d'un songe ! 
Sire, pardonnez-moi cette exclamation: 
J'avois prevu ma chute en montant sur le faite. 
Je m'y suis trop complu : mais qui n'a dans la tete 

Un petit grain d'ambition ? 

The versification of La Fontaine constitutes one of the 
greatest charms of his poetry; the lines are longer or shorter, 
not according to any established rule of sequence, but corre- 
sponding to the tone of the narrative. In description, or a 
recital of events which do not rapidly succeed each other, he 
generally uses the long line of twelve syllables ; but in dia- 
logue, or rapid narration, or when some reflection is thrown in, 
he employs all metres successively, and without confusion : 
the Alexandrine, in general, for important matters; short 



220 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

verses, for things indifferent; and lines of two syllables, to 
complete the sense. It does not appear, however, that the 
poet measured with any degree of nicety the proportion be- 
tween the thought and the length of the metre. The arrange- 
ment seems to have been the result of an instinctive sense of 
harmony, a delicate taste, and rapidity of invention; some- 
times mere caprice ; everything except idleness, for it is known, 
that for a man so fond of sleeping and doing nothing, he really 
did exert himself when he was at work. 

The fables are not liable to the grave objections which Kq 
against the tales of La Fontaine : there is neither indecorum 
nor immorality about them ; though it may be said that the 
morality he teaches is without any foundation in principle — 
La morale mains la vertu, as the French express it. La Fon- 
taine has been reckoned among the dramatists from his own 
idea of his fables — ^^ a drama in a hundred acts.^^ Viewing 
them thus, we should say his little TTiedtre has been more 
fortunate than that of his friends : it has never gone out of 
fashion. There are authors in France more admired, but few 
more popular; perhaps none so much the familiar genius of 
every fireside. 

He received, less powerfully than any of his contempora- 
ries, the impress of Le Grand Monarque. His morals, though 
perhaps no worse than those of his neighbors, yet less decently 
veiled, his neglected toilet and awkward manners, were the 
ostensible causes of his exclusion from court; and though he 
joined in the universal psean of the day to Louis XIV., he 
received neither invitation nor pension, even after the death 
of Colbert, to whom the neglect of his merit was at first attri- 
buted. Besides the ladies already mentioned, Boileau and 
Racine were his steady and attached friends ; but being both 
of them men of severe moral and religious principle, they 
highly disapproved of his complete separation from his wife, 
and remonstrated with him on its impropriety. With his usual 



LA FONTAINE. 



221 



docility, he admitted tliat what they said was veiy true, and 
declared he would go directly and see her; he would have 
done it before if he had thought of it. He set out, accord- 
ingly, next morning, and returned to Paris the day after. His 
friends begged to know how he found Madame la Fontaine. 
^' I did not see her/' replied the poet. ^' Not see her ! — was 
she from home V^ " Yes, she was gone to prayers, and the 
servant not knowing me, would not let me stay in the house 
till she returned. '^ So it proved that the poor poet, shut out 
of his own house, had repaired to that of a friend, where he 
had dined, supped, and slept, and from which he started for 
Paris next morning, without thinking of paying a second visit 
at home^ 

It is told, too, that meeting one day at a large dinner-party 
a young man whose conversation pleased him much, he ob- 
served to another of the company that he was a lad of sense 
and promise. " Why, he is your own son,'' was the reply. 
^^ Ah, I am very glad of it," rejoined the father, with the most 
perfect indifference. He seems to have been remarkably easy 
about everything that most nearly concerned him — ^^ a child 
with a gray beard." The only symptom of literary ambition 
that he is known to have manifested, was an anxious desire to 
become a member of the French Academy. A vacancy hav- 
ing occurred by the death of Colbert, he became a candidate ; 
and though the sycophants of the court opposed and denounced 
him as a mere scribbler of frivolous and licentious tales, yet 
he was elected in preference to Boileau, the king's historiogra- 
pher. The royal sanction was necessary to the reception of 
every candidate elected by the members ; and Louis, piqued 
at the rejection of Boileau for a man whom he disliked, with- 
held his approval for some months, during which La Fontaine 
addressed to him a supplicatory ballad, and moreover engaged 
the interest of Madame de Montespan, the royal mistress, to 
urge his suit. His majesty did not yield, however, till, on the 
19* 



222 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

occurrence of another vacancy, Boileau was chosen. Wheo 
this was intimated to the king by a deputation of the members, 
he replied that every one must approve of this election, and 
that La Fontaine might now be received. '^ He has promised 
to be good/' added the monarch. 

La Fontaine did indeed write fewer tales after this ; but 
whether because he had '^ promised to be good" was doubtful. 
He said himself that the meetings of the Academy amused 
the hours he had been wont to while away in writing verses. 

The humor of his tales, and the singularity of his charac- 
ter, rendered him an object of no small curiosity in his day. 
It is related that a financier once invited a large party '^ to 
meet the celebrated La Fontaine," and the guests came ex- 
pecting to hear him talk like Joconde, and tell stories like the 
matron of Ephesus. But the poet ate and drank, and never 
opened his mouth for any other purpose. At an early hour he 
rose to go, saying he had to attend a meeting of the Academy. 
^^ You will be tpo early," said the host; " it is not far." '^ FU 
take the longest way," replied La Fontaine. 

Some have alleged that he was habitually dreamy, absent^ 
and stupid in company; and a number of exaggerated anec- 
dotes have been told as exemplifications. But it seems unlikely 
that his society would have been sought and prized by such 
men as Moliere, Boileau, and Racine, the Princes Conde and 
Conti, the Marquis de Villars ; as well as in the distinguished 
circles of the Ladies Bouillon, Mazarin, and La Sabliere — if 
there had not been a considerable charm in his conversation 
as well as his writings. He might have been silent and dull 
when he found himself brought among strangers to be stared 
at ; but probably in familiar society his peculiarity was nothing 
more than that extreme simplicity and even childishness for 
which he was so remarkable, and which, doubtless, had a 
charm of its own, and occasionally afi"orded considerable amuse 
ment 



rONTAINE. 223 

If anything took his fancy, he could think of nothing else 
for the time, and introduced the favorite topic in season and 
out of season, sometimes comically enough. Racine induced 
him one day to go to church on the occasion of a high festi- 
val ; but knowing that the service would be long, and fearing 
that the poet would fall asleep, or commit some other solecism 
in church manners, he gave him a small Bible to read. The 
volume happened to open on the prayer of the Jews in the 
apocryphal book of Baruk the prophet, and the poet's fancy 
was riveted. For some time after, his first question to every 
one he met, from a bishop to a buffoon, was : ^^ Have you read 
Baruk ? Do you know what a genius he was V^ Another time, 
when his head happened to be full of Rabelais, he was in com- 
pany with the Abbe Boileau, and abruptly asked the grave 
ecclesiastic whether he thought Rabelais or St. Augustine the 
cleverest man. His friends Boileau and Racine had the utmost 
difficulty in dissuading him from dedicating one of the least 
scrupulous of his tales to M. Arnaud, as a testimony of respect : 
he could hardly be made to understand that such a tribute 
would be an insult to the pious Jansenist. No one will be 
surprised to learn that such a man had neither study nor 
library. He read and wrote according to opportunity and the 
whim of the moment; and never dreamed of being provided 
with any books but those he was immediately using. 

La Fontaine's health had been declining for some time : he 
had never manifested any sense of religion, and the idea of 
his dying impenitent so appalled the court and the Sorbonne, 
that Father Poujet, a man of note as a controversialist, was 
sent to visit him under color of mere civility, and to endea- 
vor to gain his attention to the concerns of eternity. The 
wily priest conversed for some time on ordinary topics, and 
then introduced that of religion, with an adroitness quite 
superfluous in dealing with such a simple soul as La Fontaine. 
He engaged him in argument, solved his difficulties, silenced 



224 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

his objections, and, after ten or twelve visits, had him fully 
persuaded of all the truths deemed essential to his salvation. 

But now the poet^s condition was becoming alarming, and 
somewhat more than a mere assent to religious dogmas was 
necessary to his receiving the rites of the church. Certain 
reparations and expiations must be made ; and the first was, 
that he should abandon the profits of the edition of his tales 
then publishing in Holland. This he was ready to concede, 
but wished to give the proceeds to the poor rather than leave 
them in the hands of a grasping Dutch bookseller. The 
priest, however, demonstrated that the wages of iniquity could 
not be thus offered a sacrifice to Heaven, and the poet meekly 
yielded this point also. He was next required to burn with 
his own hands a manuscript opera which he had intended to 
bring out. This, too, after some hesitation was done. The 
last and hardest condition, long resisted and disputed, was 
that he should publicly ask pardon of God and of the church 
for having scandalized both by the publication of his tales. 
In vain the attendant nurse begged of the reverend fathers 
not to torment him, and pleaded that it was '^ not perverseness 
in him, but stupidity, poor soul V^ They persevered, gained 
their point, and called in a deputation of the Academy to wit- 
ness the declaration that the volume of tales '' was an abomi- 
nable book, which he was sorry for having written, and of 
which he would never countenance or promote the further 
circulation.^' 

The conversion of La Fontaine produced the highest satis- 
faction at court. Father Poujet's fortune was made; he im- 
mediately obtained church preferment, and became a fashion- 
able confessor. Moreover, as it was deemed ^^unreasonable 
that La Fontaine should be the poorer for having done his 
duty,'' a sum equal to what he would probably have received 
for his tales was sent to him in the name of the young Duke 
of Burgundy. He lived about two years longer, began to trans- 



LA FONTAINE. 225 

late the cliurcli hymns, and, it is believed, wrote some more 
tales in spite of his vow. He died in 1695, in the seventy- 
fourth year of his age; and it was found, upon undressing 
the lifeless body, that he had been mortifying himself in a 
shirt of sackcloth. He was buried by the side of Moliere, in 
the cemetery of St. Joseph, at Paris. The apartment in 
which he spent his last days, at the house of Madame d'Her- 
vart, was visited as an object of interest for many years. 

La Fontaine's best epitaph is the following, written by him- 
self:— 

Jean s'en alia comme il ^tait venu, 
Mangeant son fonds apres son revenu, 
Croyant le bien chose pen necessaire. 
Quant a son temps bien le sut depenser, 
Deux parts en fit, dont il voulait passer— 
L'une a dormir, et I'autre a ne rien faire. 

France has produced numerous writers of fables and apo- 
logues since the time of La Fontaine, but none worthy of 
comparison with him. Gay, the English fabulist, 

*< In wit, a man — simplicity, a child," 

as Pope says, appears to have borne a striking resemblance to 
him in personal character, and his fables are reckoned the 
nearest to his in merit ; but the wit, satire, party-spirit, and 
pointed style of Gay, impressed on his works a very different 
character from the easy, graceful negligence of the French 
poet.* 

* Critics have applied to the style of La Fontaine the words which he 
uses in speaking of Venus, 

" Sa grace encor plus belle que la beaute.^^ 
They have also found in his description of Night a beautiful picture of 
his intellectual life. 

" Pas de calmes vapeurs mollement soutenue, 
La tete sur son bras, et son bras sur la nue, 
Laissant tomber des fleurs, et ne les semant pas." 



226 FRENCH LITERATURE. 



XIV. —SATIRICAL, MOCK-HEROIC, AND OTHER POETRY. 

BOILEAU, HIS EARLY LIFE— SATIRES — ART OP POETRY — THE LUTRIN — EPIS- 
TLES — ANECDOTES — HIS DEATH— NARROW SPHERE OF POETRY — MADAME 
DESHOULIERES. 

The writings of Descartes and Pascal, witli tlie precepts of 
tlie Prencli Academy and the Port Eoyalists, had established 
the art of prose composition ; but the destiny of poetry con- 
tinued doubtful, even after the appearance of Corneille's mas- 
ter-pieces; for though these afforded models in one depart- 
ment, they were too peculiar to convey any definite idea of 
what poetry ought to be. There was no specific doctrine on 
the subject. To supply this was the mission of Boileau, and 
he fulfilled it, first by satirizing the existing fashions in poetry, 
and then by composing an Art of Poetry after the manner of 
Horace. 

Nicholas Boileau,* called by his contemporaries Des- 
PREAUX, to distinguish him from his brothers, was born in or 
near Paris in 1636, the son of Giles Boileau, who was for 
sixty years greffier (clerk or recorder) to the great chamber 
of the parliament of Paris. There was a large family, of 
whom thre^ distinguished themselves in literature. The 
mother died during the infancy of Despreaux, and the father 
when he was sixteen. His childhood was one of great phy- 
sical suffering ; but it seems not then to have produced that 
irritability which was afterwards attributed to it ; his disposi- 
tion as a child was simple and kindly, so that the elder Boileau 
used to say : '^ Colin was a good fellow, who would never speak 
ill of anybody.^' 

After the death of his father, his relations induced him to 
study the law, and he was admitted to the bar at an early 

* See Lardner*s Cabinet Cyclopedia. 



BOILEAU. 227 

age ; but the chicanery and tortuosity of the profession speedily 
disgusted him, and, besides, the books of Accursius and Alciati 
were little likely to interest the disciple of Horace and Juvenal. 
He therefore deserted what his biographers call Ventre de la 
chicane, and determined to study theology. But finding that 
scholastic divinity had its tricks and quirks as well as law, and 
declaring that chicanery had only changed her garb to allure 
him more cunningly, he renounced the Sorbonne^ and applied 
himself entirely to the study of the belles-lettres. 

We have already alluded (sec. vii.) to the various styles of 
poetry cultivated by Voiture, Menage^ Chapelain, Scudery, 
Benserade, and others^ for the amusement of the court circle. 
Nothing had as yet appeared effectually to counteract the false 
taste which relished such compositions, except the tragedies 
of Corneille and the comedies of Moliere. These had, indeed, 
commanded a high reputation, but Chapelain was still the 
oracle of light literature, and not only enjoyed a royal pension, 
but was intrusted by Colbert with the task of furnishing a list 
of the names of those who ought to be deemed worthy of re- 
ceiving literary rewards from Louis XIV. Most of the poets 
who then enjoyed the highest celebrity, however now for- 
gotten, belonged to the same school, for such as Baciae and 
La Fontaine were at this time but debutants in the literary 
world. " In the midst of men who made verses for the sake 
of making them, and composed languishing love-songs upon 
the perfections of mistresses who never existed except in their 
own imaginations, Boileau determined to write nothing but 
what interested his feelings ; to break with this affected gal- 
lantry, and draw poetry only from the depths of his own heart.^' 
It would seem as if searching there for thoughts and feelings 
to express in verse, what he chiefly found was burning indig- 
nation that men, who ought to be the standards of correct 
taste, persisted in writing such trash. His own debut, accord- 
ingly, was made in unmerciful satires on the works of these 



228 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

poetasters. Every Frenclimaii is familiar with tlie verses in 
which he ridicules the fictitious gallantries which occupied 
most of the poetry of his time. 

Faudra-t-il, de sang-froid et sans etre amoureux 
Pour quelque Iris en I'air faire le langoureux, 
Lui prodiguer les noms de Soleil et d'Aurore, 
Et toujours bien mangeant, mourir par metaphore ? 

The Pucelle of Chapelain also came in for its share. In an 
evil hour, this worthy man had believed himself capable of 
writing an heroic epic, and had chosen the Maid of Orleans as 
the theme. During the twenty years he was composing it, he 
had enjoyed a high degree of anticipated reputation from the 
popularity of the subject, and the merit of some detached 
passages which obtained publicity. But when it appeared 
entire, the general disappointment was severe in proportion. 
Its style may be judged from the following lines. The Maid 
is represented as thus addressing the king : — 

! grand prince, que grand des cette heure j'appelle, 

II est vrai, le respect sert de bride a mon zMe : 

Mais ton illustre aspect me redouble le coeur, 

Et me le redoublant, me redouble la peur. 

A ton illustre aspect mon coeur se sollicite, 

Et grimpant centre mont, la dure terre quitte. 

O ! que n'ai-je le ton desormais assez fort 

Pour aspirer a toi, sans te faire de tort. 

Pour toi puisse-je avoir une mortelle pointe 

Vers ou I'epaule gaucbe a la gorge est conjointe, 

Que le coup brisat I'os, et fit pleuvoir le sang 

De la temple, du dos, de I'epaule, et du flanc. 

Boileau was not the first to ridicule this unfortunate epic : a 
host of epigrams had already appeared against it ] but his well- 
pointed sarcasms brought up the rear, and completed the ruin 
of Chapelain's poetical reputation, so that one of his best 



BOILEAU. 229 

friends was obliged to say : ^' If lie followed my advice^ lie 
would never write poetry/^ 

Boileau continued to plead the cause of reason against 
rhyme^ of true poetry against false^ and maintained that he 
was only the mouthpiece of the wise public who said nothing, 
against the fashionable public who had many voices. But the 
thing was not to be borne^ that the son of a greffier, a young 
man having no claims to be a public censor, except his four- 
and-twenty years, and his mortal hatred of whatever he was 
pleased to call a foolish book, should dare to asperse the poets 
of the court of Louis XIV., and cast an imputation on those 
who distributed the king's bounty. The Duke of Montauzier, 
the son-in-law of the celebrated Madame de Eambouillet, who, 
it will be remembered, was the goddess of the clique which 
established the system of factitious gallantry ridiculed by 
Boileau — took upon himself to be furious, and declared that 
Boileau ought to be tossed into the river, and allowed to rhyme 
there. Some of the poets answered in verse, and received 
versified answers to their complaints. Meanwhile, despite the 
anger both of the poets and their patrons, Boileau's satires, 
which, however, were still unpublished, enjoyed immense 
favor, and he became the welcome guest of the best society 
in Paris. To the talent for writing verse with singular ele- 
gance, he added that of reading it well, and possessed, besides, 
considerable power of mimicry, which contributed much to 
the zest of his recitations. The great Prince Conde, who 
greatly preferred literary to merely aristocratic society, became 
his special protector, and invited him to his reunions at Chan- 
tilly. Arnaud and Nicole, the Port Royalists, were among his 
most revered friends; while Racine, La Fontaine, Moliere, 
and Chapelle, were his intimate companions. The personal 
character of Boileau reflected unfavorably on the contemptible 
morals of the poetasters, as his satires had rendered their 
works ridiculous. In the midst of buffoons and libertines, he 
20 



230 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

maintained the correct manners of the recluses of Port Royal, 
with the easy enjoyment of social life. 

Notwithstanding the high ground on which he thus stood, 
he refrained for a considerable time from publishing those 
satires which had gained him so much popularity. But indi- 
viduals who had heard him recite his verses, repeated them 
to others, and many of them, from their appositeness and 
felicity of expression, had passed into proverbs; and now the 
booksellers had got hold of imperfect copies, transcribed from 
memory, and had printed them for their own advantage. The 
sensitive ear of the author was shocked at the inaccuracies 
which had crept in as the result of this loose mode of publica- 
tion ; and he was thus induced to bring them out himself. He 
accordingly published seven satires (1666), preceded by an 
address to the king, and a preface to the public. The former, 
however full of praise, was, it would seem, but the echo of the 
general voice of the French nation, and had been, it is even 
now admitted, fairly earned by the sovereign. In the latter, 
he apologizes for the publication as a measure of self-defence ; 
bids the authors whom he criticises remember that Parnassus 
was at all times a free country; invites them to criticise his 
works in their turn ; and comforts them with the reflection, 
that if their compositions are bad, they deserve his censure, 
and if good, they will not be injured by it. 

About the same time, he used to recite his Dialogues des 
Heros de Roman — a little work in the style of Lucian's Dia- 
logues, in which he turned into ridicule the loves of Cyrus and 
Clelie in the novels of Mademoiselle de Scudery. This satire 
was the more lively, as these romances had in his youth 
appeared to him, as to all the rest of the world, among the 
finest productions in the language. But he absolutely refused 
even to put this work on paper during the lifetime of the lady, 
for whose personal character he had the highest respect; and 
here be it told, that Boileau knew well how to distinguish 



BOILEAU. 231 

between authors and their works, and was ready to meet them 
with cordiality when he found them willing so far to pardon 
him. In such case he used to say he had the greater merit, 
according to the proverb, that ^^ the injured may forgive, but 
the injurer never/' Madame de Sevigne used to say of him, 
that he was " cruel only in verse ;'' and not a few of those who 
had read his satires were surprised to find him frank and gentle 
in company, his conversation being, as he himself expressed it, 
without either claws or nails. Two more satires appeared in 
the following year. 

The battle was now gained : the king had declared himself 
for the new poets against the old ; and Boileau sheathed the 
sword for five years, and consolidated his victory by writing 
the Art of Poetry, Having held up to ridicule the prevalent 
faults of the literature of his time, he applied himself to the 
less ungracious task of laying down rules to restrain the 
vo grant imaginations of the poets, to restore poetry to its true 
dignity, and raise the condition of the poet. His fundamental 
doctrine was, that ^' reason is the soul of writing, and truth its 
only object/' 

Aimez-vous la raison ; que toujours vos Merits 
Empruntent d'elle seule et leur lustre et leur prix ; 
Rien n'est beau que le vrai ; le vrai seul est aimable. 

The various rules which he lays down are but particular appli- 
cations of this great principle in the various kinds of compo- 
sition. It was thus that Boileau fulfilled the mission of the 
'^ Legislator of Parnassus,'' a title which was accorded to him 
by the unanimous voice of his age. 

The doctrines thus established were somewhat more than 
the work of one superior genius. They were the literary creed 
of the greatest poets then living, and had been, it is believed, 
carefully discussed with Moliere, Racine, La Fontaine, and 
Chapelle, who used to sup together two or three times a week 



232 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

at the lodgings of Boileau. At these literary meetings, there 
was an infliction attached to every breach of the rules which 
its members had laid down for themselves. It consisted of 
reading so many lines of the Pucelle of Chapelain : to read a 
whole page of it was the extreme penalty of the law. 

The labor connected with the Art of Poetry was relieved 
by the ingenious pleasantry of the Lutriiij which originated 
in the following manner : — 

An argument having turned upon epic poetry, Boileau had 
maintained that the excellence of a heroic depended on the 
power of its inventor to sustain and enlarge upon a slender 
groundwork. A frivolous dispute afterwards arising between 
the treasurer and the chanter of the cathedral concerning the 
placing of a reading desk (lutriri), M. de Lamoignon, the 
reverend friend of Boileau, playfully challenged him to write 
a heroic poem on the subject if he would verify his own theory. 
Such was the occasion of this mock-heroic, considered the 
happiest effort of his muse, though admitted even by his own 
countrymen to be inferior to Pope's Rape of the Loch^ which 
is a composition of similar kind. 

The slender groundwork was, that the cumbrous old-fashioned 
desk entirely hid the chanter, who therefore removed it; and 
this excited the wrath of the treasurer, his superior, who 
replaced it; whereupon the whole chapter entered into the 
quarrel, which was appeased only by ih.Q interference of the 
president, M. de Lamoignon. The poem begins with a spirited 
exordium : — 

Je chante les combats, et ce Pr<^lat terrible, 
Qui par ses longs travaux, et sa force invincible, 
Dans une illustre Eglise exerQant son grand ca3ur, 
Fit placer a la fin un Lutrin dans le choeur. 
C'est en vain que le chantre abusant d'un faux titre, 
Deux fois I'en fit oter par les mains du chapitre ; 
Ce Prclat sur le banc de son rival altier, 
Deux fois le reportant, Ten couvrit tout entier. 



BOILEAU. 233 

It proceeds to describe the peace and prosperity of the Chapel- 
Royal at Paris : — 

Parmi les doux plaisirs d'une paix fraternelle, 
Paris voyoit flieurir son antique chapelle. 
Ses chanoines vermeils et brillant de sant^ 
S'engraissoient d'une longue et sainte oisivete. 
Sans sortir de leurs lits, plus doux que leurs hermines, 
Ces pieux faineans faisoient chanter matines ; 
Veilloient a bien diner, et laissoient en leur lieu, 
A des chantres gag^s le soin de louer Dieu. 

But Discord is indignant at witnessing this repose : — 

Quand la Discorde, encore toute noire de crimes, 
Sortant des Cordeliers pour aller aux Minimes ; 
Avec cet air hideux qui fait fremir la paix, 
S'arreta pr^s d'un arbre, au pied de son palais. 
La, d'un ceil attentif contemplant son empire, 
A Taspect du tumulte elle-meme s'admire. 

And now, taking the form of an old chanter, she goes to the 
treasurer, who is a bishop, resolved to excite him to conten- 
tion. The prelate is thus described : — 

Dans le reduit d'une alcove enfong^e, 
S'^l^ve un lit de plume a grands frais amassee, 
Quatre rideaux pompeux, par un double contour, 
En defend ent 1' entree a la clarte du jour. 
La, parmi les douceurs d'un tranquille silence, 
R^gne sur le duvet une heureuse indolence. 
C'est la que le Prelat, muni d'un dejeuner, 
Dormant d'un leger somme, attendait le diner. 
La jeunesse en sa fleur brille sur son visage, 
Son menton sur son sein descend a double etage ; 
Et son corps ramass6 dans sa courte grosseur. 
Fait gemir les coussins sous sa moUe epaisseur. 

Discord now applies himself to the work of mischief : — 
20* 



234 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

La deesse en entrant, qui voit la nappe mise, 

Admire un si bel ordre, et reconnoit T^glise ; 

Et marchant a grands pas vers le lieu de repos, 

Au Prelat sommeillant elle adresse ces mots : 

** Tu dors, Prelat, tu dors ? et la-haut a ta place, 

Le chantre aux yeux du choeur etale son audace : 

Chante les oremus, fait des processions, 

Et r^pand a grands flots les benedictions. 

Tu dors ? attends-tu done que, sans bulle et sans titre, 

II te ravisse encore le rochet et la mitre ? 

Sors de ce lit oiseux, qui te tient attach^ 

Et renonce au repos, ou bien h, I'^veche." 

The prelate rises full of wrath and resolution, and would have 
summoned the chapter even before dinner, but Gilotin, his 
almoner, remonstrates against this display of heroism : — 

Quelle fureur, dit-il, quel aveugle caprice, 

Quand le diner est pret, vous appelle a I'ofEce ? 

De votre dignite soutenez mieux I'eclat : 

Est-ce pour travailler que vous etes prelat ? 

A quoi bon ce dugout et ce z^le inutile ; 

Est-il done pour jeuner quatre temps ou vigile ? 

Reprenez vos esprits, et souvenez-vous bien, 

Qu'un diner rechauffe ne valut jamais rien. 

Ainsi dit Gilotin, et ce ministre sage 

Sur table, au meme instant, fait servir le potage. 

Le Prelat voit la soupe, et plein d'un saint respect, 

Demeure quelque temps muet a cet aspect. 

II c^de^ — il dine enfin. 

The chapter being afterwards assembled, the bishop complains, 
in tears, of the presumption of the chanter; and Sidrac, the 
Nestor of the chapter, suggests a mode of humbling him. 
Here a description of this famous reading-desk is introduced : — 

Vers cet endroit du choeur oil le chantre orgueilleux, 
Montre, assis a ta gauche, un front si sourcilleux; 
Sur ce rang d'ais serr6s qui forment sa cloture, 
Fut jadis un lutrin d'in^galc structure. 



BOiLEAU. 235 

Dont les flancs ^largis, de leur vastc contour 

Ombragoient pleinement tous les lieux d'alentour. 

Derriere ce lutrin, ainsi qu'au fond d'un antre, 

A peine sur son banc, on discernait le chantre. 

Tandis qu'a I'autre banc le Prelat radieux, 

D^couvert a grand jour, attiroit tous les yeux. 

Mais un demon, fatal a cette ample machine, 

Soit qu'une main la nuit eut liat6 sa ruine, 

Soit qu'ainsi de tout tems Tordonnat le destin, 

Fit tomber a nos yeux le pupitre un matin. 

J'eus beau prendre le ciel et le chantre a partie : 

II fallut I'emporter dans notre sacristie. 

Oil depuis trente hivers sans gloire enseveli, 

II languit tout poudreux dans un honteux oubli. 

Entends-moi done, Prelat. Des que I'ombre tranquille 

Viendra d'un crepe noir envelopper la ville, 

II faut que trois de nous, sans tumulte et sans bruit, 

Partent a la faveur de la naissante nuit ; 

Et du lutrin rompu reunissant la masse, 

Aillent d'un zele adroit le remettre a sa place. 

Si le chantre demain ose le renverser, 

Alors de cent arrets tu peux le terrasser. 

Pour soutenir tes droits, que le ciel autorise, 

Abime tout plutot, c'est I'esprit de I'eglise. 

C'est par la qu'un prelat signale la vigueur. 

Ne borne pas ta gloire a prier dans le choeur: 

Ces vertus dans Aleth peuvent etre en usage, 

Mais dans Paris, plaidons: c'est-la notre partage. 

This advice is eagerly adopted; and lots having been cast, 
three are selected for its performance. Brontin comes first; 
then L' Amour, a hair-dresser; and lastly, Boirude, the sacris- 
tan. The chapter is satisfied with the choice, and 

Le Prelat, reste seul, calme un peu son depit, 
Et jusqu'au souper se couche et s'assoupit. 

In the commencement of the second book, is a scene of 
remonstrance and reproach between the wigmaker and his 
wife, travestied on the parting of ^neas and Dido. But 



236 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

thougli tliose portions of the poem which, are parodies on the 
ancient epics are replete with wit, yet they are less pleasing 
than those strictly original. Towards the end of the second 
book, Discord observes the three adventurers hastening towards 
the tower where the lutrin is hid. Their joyful shout awakens 
Indolence : — 

L'air qui gemit du cri de Thorrible deesse, 

Va jusques dans Citeaux reveiller la Mollesse. 

C'est la qu'en un dortoir elle fait son sejour. 

Les Plaisirs noncbalans folatrent a I'entour. 

L'un paitrit dans un coin I'embonpoint des chanoines, 

L'autre broie en riant le vermilion des moines ; 

La Volupte la sert avec des yeux devots, 

Et toujours le Sommeil lui verse des pavots. 

Ce soir plus que jamais, en vain il les redouble, 

La Mollesse a ce bruit se reveille, se trouble. 

Night enters, and alarms her still more by announcing, that 
on the morrow the lutrin is to appear in the chapel, a signal 
for mutiny and war. Indolence drops a tear, opens one eye, 
and utters a feeble complaint : — 

Nuit, que m'as tu dit ? Quel demon sur la terre 
Souffle dans tons les coeurs la fatigue et la guerre ? 
Helas ! qu'est devenu ce temps, cet heureux temps, 
Oil les rois s'honoraient du nom de fain^ans, 
S'endormoient sur le trone, et me servant sans honte, 
Laissoient leur sceptre aux mains ou d'un maire ou d'un comte. 
Aucun soin n'approchait de leur paisible cour, 
On reposait la nuit, on dormait tout le jour. 

* * -X- ei:- 

Ce doux sifecle n'est plus ! le ciel impitoyable, 
A plac^ sur le trone un prince infatigable. 
II brave mes douceurs, il est sourd a ma voix. 
Tous les jours il m'eveille au bruit de ses exploits ; 
Rien ne pent arreter sa vigilante audace, 
L'^t^ n'a point de feux, I'hiver n'a point de glace. 
J'entends a son seul nom mes sujets fremir. 
En vain deux fois la Paix a voulu I'endormir: 



BOILEAU. 237 

Loin de moi son courage, entraine par la gloire, 
Ne se plait qu'a courir de victoire en victoire. 

This episode is considered the jewel of the whole poem. In 
the third canto, the adYenturous trio enter the sacristy to seize 
the lutrin, but Night has brought and hid in it an owl, whose 
sudden appearance terrifies the heroes, and they are about to 
fly. Discord rallies them ; they pursue the adventure, carry 
off the desk in triumph, and reinstate it before the seat of the 
chanter. The fourth book relates the discovery, the resolution 
of the enraged chanter to destroy the desk, the indignation of 
the whole chapter; and finally, the destruction of the lutrin, 
which is carried off piecemeal. The poem at first consisted 
only of these four books ; but the author was induced to con- 
tinue it. The fifth book describes the meeting of the hostile 
parties. The prelate and chanter, each rushing to the chapel, 
meet near the shop of Barbin, the bookseller. They eye each 
other with mutual rage ; a friend of the chanter seizes a pon- 
derous volume — the Great Cijrus of Mademoiselle de Scudery — 
and hurls it at Boirude, who avoids the blow, and the tremen- 
dous tome strikes poor old Sidrac to the ground. A general 
battle ensues ; they rush into the shop, dismantle the shelves, 
and fling the volumes at each other. The naming of these 
books affords opportunity for satirical allusions to contemporary 
authors, many of whom are so entirely forgotten that the point 
of the sarcasms cannot be appreciated. The party of the 
chanter gains the ascendant, but the bishop, by a happy strat- 
agem, escapes personal danger : — 

Au spectacle ^tonnant de leur chute impr^vue, 
Le Prelat pousse un cri qui pen^tre la nue. 
II maudit dans son coeur le demon des combats, 
Et de I'horreur du coup il recule six pas. 
Mais bientot rappelant son antique prouesse, 
II tire du manteau sa dextre vengeresse ; 
II part, et ses doigts saintement along^s, 
Benit tous les passans en deux files ranges. 



238 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

II salt que I'ennemi, que ce coup va surprendre, 

Desormais sur ses pieds ne I'oseroit attendre, 

Et deja voit pour lui tout le peuple en courroux, 

Crier aux combattans : Profanes, a genoux. 

Le chantre, qui de loin voit approcher I'orage, 

Dans son coeur eperdu cherche en vain du courage. 

Sa fierte I'abandonne, il tremble, il cede, il fuit ; 

Le long des sacres raurs sa brigade le suit. 

Tout s'ecarte a I'instant, mais aucun n'en rechappe, 

Partout le doigt vainqueur les suit et les ratrappe. 

Evrard seul, en un coin pruderament retire, 

Se croyoit a convert de I'insulte sacre. 

Mais le Prelat vers lui fait une marclie adroite : 

II observe de Toeil, et tirant vers la droite, 

Tout d'un coup tourne a gauche, et d'un bras fortune, 

Benit subitement le guerrier consterne. 

Le chanoine, surpris de la foudre mortelle, 

Se dresse, et leve en vain une tete rebelle : 

Sur ses genoux tremblans il tombe a cet aspect, 

Et donne a la frayeur ce qu'il doit au respect. 

The sixth book describes the arrival of Piety, Faith, and 
Grace, who awaken Aristus (M. de Lamoignon), and through 
his interference, peace is restored. 

Madame de Thianges, sister of Madame de Montespan, was 
so struck with the eulogy of Louis XIV., which the poet puts 
in the mouth of Indolence, that she read it to the king while 
it was still in manuscript. Boileau was invited to court, and 
at once received a pension. 

Among the literary plans concocted between Boileau and 
Racine, was the institution of an academy, composed of a very 
few individuals, who were to write short inscriptions for the 
medals struck by Louis XIV. to celebrate the great events of 
his reign. Madame de Montespan suggested that such records 
must be very inadequate, and that a regular history should be 
compiled. Madame de Maintenon added the proposal, that 
Boileau and Bacine should be appointed joint historiographers. 



BOILEAU. 239 

and the two friends renounced poetry for a time, to prosecute 
the studies necessary to qualify them for the work before them. 
The following year, they accompanied the king to the siege of 
Gand, to the no small amusement of the court circle, and dis- 
played the expected amount of ignorance as to all the arrange- 
ments necessary for such an expedition, with a docile credu- 
lousness, of which their military friends availed themselves to 
enjoy a little mirth at their expense. Boileau's health pre- 
vented him from following any other campaign; and as there 
remains but a fragmentary relic of their work, it is not known 
to what extent it proceeded. When they had written any 
details they thought likely to interest their royal master, they 
used to read them to him in the apartments of Madame de 
Montespan, Madame de Maintenon also being generally present. 

The best of Boileau's epistles were written about this time ; 
and French critics maintain, that though he must be confessed 
inferior to Horace in his satires, he has surpassed him in many 
of his epistles. He afterwards returned to satire, but his later 
pieces of this kind are reckoned very inferior to his earlier 
ones. Nor is he considered to have equalled himself in his 
Ode sur la Prise de Namur^ occasioned by a controversy on 
the merits of the ancient poets. Pity an author should not 
know when to stop. 

Boileau had entertained some fear that by receiving the 
bounty of the king he might be bartering the privilege of tell- 
ing him the truth ; but it would seem not to have proved so. 
It is well known that when Louis was making search for 
Arnaud to commit him to the Bastille, "" Le roi est trop heu- 
reux pour le trouver,'^ said the poet to one of the oflficers. 
Nor only did he with design maintain a free and manly bear- 
ing, but sometimes, through absence of mind, made blunders 
which shocked even Bacine. Conversing one day with Madame 
de Maintenon on the now subsiding rage for vulgar burlesque 
poetry, he said that " happily this vile taste had passed away, 



240 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

and Scarron was no longer read even in the provinces." Ra- 
cine afterwards asked him whether he did not know of the 
lady's near relationship to Scarron.* '^ Alas, no !" replied 
Boileau ; '' but it is the first thing I forget when I am in her 
company.^' 

Two anecdotes mentioned by all the biographers of Boileau 
prove that the inexorable satirist had a generous heart. Patru, 
the celebrated advocate, had ruined himself by his passion for 
literature, and was reduced to the necessity of selling his valua- 
ble library. He had almost agreed to part with it for a mode- 
rate sum, when Boileau offered a higher, and after paying the 
money, added this condition to the purchase, that Patru should 
retain possession of it for his life. Again : when it was rumored 
at court that the king intended to retrench the pension of Cor- 
neille, Boileau hastened to Madame Montespan, and represented 
that it would be most unjust to grant a pension to an author 
like himself just ascending the Mount Parnassus, and with- 
draw it from Corneille, who had been so long seated on the 
summit; he entreated, therefore, for the honor of the king, 
that his own name should be struck off the pension-list rather 
than that of Corneille. This magnanimous intercession was 
crowned with the success it deserved. 

As Boileau advanced in years, he became more recluse in 
his habits. The taste which he had had in earlier life for 
social and convivial pleasures, subsided into a sort of easy 
indolence, enlivened by the pleasures of intimate friendship. 
His attachment to Racine seems to have been the warmest and 
most enduring of his feelings, and the dying farewell of the 
tragedian is the most expressive eulogy of the private charac- 
ter of the satirist. ^^ Je regarde comme mon bonheur pour 
moi de mourir avant vous." A few days after Racine's death, 
Boileau appeared at court for the last time, to take the king's 

* Sec page 294. 



BOILEAU. 241 

commands witli regard to the prosecution of the history. When 
urged by his friends not to withdraw himself entirely^ he said : 
^^ What should I do there ? I cannot flatter/^ By this time, 
then (1698), it would seem that Louis, intoxicated with the 
praise which had formerly been the willing tribute of a grati- 
fied nation, had begun to require it even where it was not con- 
sidered due. Louis Racine, the son of the poet, to whom we 
are chiefly indebted for what we know of Boiieau's declining 
years, used to visit him frequently, and play with him at nine- 
pins. The old man said one day, that it must be confessed he 
possessed two talents equally useful to his country — he could 
play well at nine-pins and make verses. At this time he con- 
gratulated himself on the purity of his works. ^^ It is,'' he 
said, ^^ a great consolation to a poet who must die soon, to 
think that he has never written anything injurious to virtue.'' 

His last days were employed in correcting a complete edition 
of his works, which were now to include the Dialogue on the 
Romances, as well as the Satires, Epistles, and Epigrams; the 
Art of Poetry ; A Dialogue on Poetry and Music ; and a trans- 
lation of Longinus's Treatise on the Sublime, with critical 
remarks. An Epistle to Amhiguity, which embodied an expo- 
sure of the Jesuits, was also to have been added ^ but the 
king, at the instance of his confessor, forbade its appearance, 
and required that the manuscript should be delivered to him. 
Boileau disdained to temporize, and chose to suppress the whole 
edition rather than exclude this to satisfy the Jesuits. 

He retained his literary tastes to the last. "When he was 
asked how he felt, he replied by a line from Malherbe — 

** Je suis vaiucu du temps, je cede a ses outrages." 

As he was expiring, he grasped the hand of M. Coutard, 
and said : ^^ Bon jour, et adieu — c'est un long adieu." He 
died of dropsy in the chest (1711), in his seventy -fifth year, 
the last of the great poets of the golden age. His remains 

21 



242 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

were interred in tlie vault of the Sainte-Cliapelle, immediately 
under the spot where stood the lutrin which he had immor- 
talized. 

The following is the opening of the Art of Poetry : — 

PREMIER CHANT DE L'ART POI^TIQUE. 

C*est en vain qu'au Parnasse un temeraire auteur 
Pense de I'art des vers atteindre la hauteur : 
S'il ne sent point du ciel I'influence secrete, 
Si son astre en naissant ne I'a forme poete, 
Dans son genie etroit il est toujours captif ; 
Pour lui Phebus est sourd, et Pegase est retif. 

vous done qui, brulant d'une ardeur perilleuse, 
Courez du bel esprit la carriere epineuse, 
N'allez pas sur des vers sans fruit vous consumer, 
Ni prendre pour genie un amour de rimer. 
Craignez d'un vain plaisir les trompeuses amorces, 
Et consultez longtemps votre esprit et vos forces. 

La nature, fertile en esprits excellents, 
Sait entre les auteurs partager les talents : 
L'un pent tracer en vers une amoureuse flamme, 
L' autre d'un trait plaisant aiguiser I'epigramme. 
Malherbe d'un heros pent vanter les exploits ; 
Racan chanter Philis, les bergers et les bois. 
Mais souvent un esprit qui se flatte et qui s'aime, 
Meconnait son genie, et s'ignore soi-meme. 
Ainsi tel autrefois qu'on vit avec Faret 
Charbonner de ses vers les murs d'un cabaret, 
S'en va mal a propos, d'une voix insolente. 
Chanter du peuple h^breu la fuite triomphante, 
Et, poursuivant Moise au travers des deserts, 
Court avec Pharaon se noyer dans les mers. 

Quelque sujet qu'on traite, ou plaisant ou sublime, 
Que toujours le bon sens s'accorde avec la rime. 
L'un I'autre vainement ils semblent se hair; 
La rime est une esclave et ne doit qu'obeir. 
Lorsque a la bien chercher d'abord on s'^vertue, 
L'esprit a la trouver ais^ment s'habitue ; 



BOILEAU. 243 

Au joug de la raison sans peine elle flecliit, 
Et, loin de la gener, la sert et Fenrichit. 
Mais, lorsqu'on la neglige, elle devient rebelle, 
Et pour la rattraper le sens court apres elle. 
Aimez done la raison. Que toujours vos ecrits 
Empruntent d'elle seule et leur lustre et leur prix. 

La plupart, emport^s d'une fougue insensee, 
Toujours loin du droit sens vont chercher leur pens^e. 
lis croiraient s'abaisser, dans leurs vers monstrueux, 
S'ils pensaient ce qu'un autre a pu penser comme eux, 
Evitons ces exc^s. Laissons a I'ltalie 
De tons ces faux brillants Feclatante folie. 
Tout doit tendre au bon sens ; mais pour j parvenir, 
Le chemin est glissant et penible a tenir ; 
Pour peu qu'on s'en ecarte, aussitot on se noie. 
Le raison pour marcher n'a souvent qu'une voie. 

Un auteurquelquefois, trop plein de son objet, 
Jamais sans I'^puiser n'abandonne un sujet. 
S'il rencontre un palais, il m'en depeint la face ; 
II me prom^ne apres de terrasse en terrasse ; 
Ici s'offre un perron; la regne un corridor; 
La ce balcon s'enferme en un balustre d'or. 
II compte des plafonds les ronds et les ovales ; 
** Ce ne sont que festons, ce ne sont qu'astragales." 
Je saute vingt feuillets pour en trouver la fin, 
Et je me sauve a peine au travers du jardin. 
Fuyez de ces auteurs I'abondance sterile, 
Et ne vous cliargez point d'un detail inutile. 
Tout ce qu'on dit de trop est fade et rebutant ; 
L'esprit rassasi^ le rejette a Finstant. 
Qui ne salt se borner ne sut jamais ecrire. 
« « ^ 

Durant les premiers ans du Parnasse fran^ois, 
Le caprice tout seul faisait toutes les lois. 
La rime, au bout des mots assembles sans mesure, 
Tenait lieu d'ornements, de nombre et de ensure. 
Villon sut le premier, dans ces siecles grossiers, 
B^brouiller Fart confus de nos vieux romanciers. 



244 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Marot bientot apr^s fit fleurir les ballades, 

Tourna des triolets, rima des mascarades, 

A des refrains regies asservit les rondeaux, 

Et montra pour rimer des chemins tout nouveaux. 

Konsard, qui le suivit, par nne autre methode, 

Reglant tout, brouilla tout, fit un art a sa mode^ 

Et toutefois longtemps eut un lieureux destin. 

Mais sa muse, en fran9ais parlant grec et latin, 

Vit dans Page suivant, par un retour grotesque^ 

Tomber de ses grands mots le faste pedantesque, 

Ce poete orgueilleux, trebuch^ de si haut, 

Rendit plus retenus Desportes et Bertaut. 

Enfin Malherbe vint ; et, le premier en France^ 

Fit sentir dans les vers une juste cadence, 

D'un mot mis en sa place enseigna le pouvoir^ 

Et reduisit la muse aux rfegles du devoir. 

Par ee sage 4crivain la langue reparee 

N'ofi^rit plus rien de rude a Foreille epuree. 

Les stances avec grace apprirent a tomber ; 

Et le vers sur le vers n'osa plus enjamber. 

Tout reconnut ses lois ; et ce guide fidele 

Aux auteurs de ce temps sert encor de modele. 

Marchez done sur ses pas ; aimez sa purete, 

Et de son tour heureux imitez la clarte. 

Si le sens de vos vers tarde a se faire entendre^ 

Mon esprit aussitot commence a se detendre, 

Et, de vos vains discours prompt a se detacher, 

Ne suit point un auteur qu'il faut toujours ehercher. 

There is no other poetry of this period worthy to detain hb. 
If we inquire for the lyric muse, it is to be found in the cho- 
ruses of Hacine's Esther and Athaliej and in some of La 
Fontaine's minor pieces, especially the touching elegy Aux 
Nymphes de Vaux, occasioned by the disgrace of Fouquet. 

The horizon of the poets, it must be observed, was some- 
what circumscribed. Attracted to the capital, and confined to 
the conventional life of the court and city, they enjoyed little 
opportunity for the contemplation of nature] while, on the 



MADAME DESHOULIERES. 245 

other hand; tlie policy of Louis XIV. proscribed national re- 
collections; so that social life, and that of their own time 
alone, was open to them. Poetry thus became either abstract 
and ideal, or limited to the delineation of those passions which 
belong to a highly artificial state of society. 

Madame Deshoulieres, indeed, wrote some graceful idyls, 
but she by no means entered into the spirit of rural life and 
manners like La Fontaine, or even old Kacan (1589 — 1670), 
who scarcely belonged to this generation. There are before 
us two of Madame Deshoulieres' pieces,* in which she shows 
herself much more at home than among shepherds and shep- 
herdesses.f In the first, she is depicting the annoyances of 
a literary lion. 

Ah ! think, my friend, how onerous is fame ! 
You call to pay a visit — at your name 
The whole assembly changes tone and looks : 
"Here comes an author," now they cry; 
** Let language take a lofty range :" 
And in a manner, stiff and strange, 
Their precious syllables they try. 
They bore you all the while about new books^^ 
Ask your opinion, too, about your own, 

And beg the favor of a recitation : 
When, if you give the first in simple tone. 
Or speak the other with shy hesitation,^ 
The whisper will run round : " A 5eZ esprit f 
Why, she talks like another — you or me ! 
Calls herself an author, and none grander, 
While any one with ears can understand her!" 

In the second, she is addressing Pere la Chaise, the king's 
confessor, on the hypocrisy which had become fashionable 

*" Translated in the Foreign Quarterly Review. 

f She was so fascinated with pastoral life, that, as it is said, she expressed 
the wish that she had been a sheep, instead of a woman. 
21 * 



246 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

through the piety of Madame de Maintenon and other conrt 
devotees. Supposing herself invited to assume this mask in 
order to engage the regard of the king, she indignantly ex- 
claims : — 

Devotion ! No ! Hypocrisy is made 

By beggared debauchees their safest trade ; 

By women from whom Time hath stolen all charm, 

Or scandal on their name breathed fatal harm : 

Let these alone, bereft of merit, try 

To put on Bigotry's deceitful eye : 

All is forgotten — all is varnished o'er — 

And taint, or crime, or folly seen no more. 

Oh, that I could some deep dark colors find 

To paint the blackness of the treacherous mind ! 

How I, who hate all falsehood, e'en the streak 

Of simulated red rouged o'er the cheek, 

Must more detest the gloss o'er manners thrown, 

And hate all forms that are not Nature's own ! 



XV.— ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT AND BAR. 

INFLUENCE OP LOUIS XIV. ON PULPIT ELOQUENCE — BOSSUET, HIS LIFE AND 
WORKS — BOURDALOUE — MASSILLON — FLECIIIER — SAURIN — FORENSIC 
ORATORS. 

Louis XIY. afforded to religious eloquence the most effica- 
cious of all kinds of encouragement — that of personal attend- 
ance. The court-preachers had no more attentive auditor than 
their royal master, who was singularly gifted with that tender- 
ness of conscience which leads a man to condemn himself for 
his sins, yet indulge in their commission ; to feel a certain 
pleasure in self-accusation, and to enjoy that reaction of mind 
which consists in occasionally holding his passions in abeyance, 
and yielding to the better feelings which ought to have per- 



ELOQUENCE OF THE PULPIT. 247 

manently controlled them. He suffered tlie greatest evangeli- 
cal liberty to those who thus ministered to him : they were 
free to inculcate the highest style of morality, and even to 
portray and denounce the very vices in which the king most 
freely indulged. They were not, indeed, permitted to make 
the personal application ; but he made no scruple of showing 
that he made it himself, and felt for the time the severity of 
the admonitions that were conveyed. This kind of attention 
on the part of a great monarch ; the liberty of saying every- 
thing, tempered with the obHgation to speak respectfully and 
to the purpose ; the refined taste of an audience who could on 
the same day attend a sermon of Bourdaloue and a tragedy 
of Eacine ; all these circumstances tended to lead pulpit elo- 
quence to the highest degree of perfection, and accordingly 
we find the function of court-preacher exercised successively 
by Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and Massillon, the greatest names 
that the Roman Catholic Church has boasted in any age or 
country; and in every page of whose sermons we recognise 
sources from which our own divines have drawn most abun- 
dantly. No marvel that attendance on sermons in those days 
was not merely a religious duty, but one of the highest intel- 
lectual gratifications. 

Briefly to characterize the respective merits of these preach- 
ers, we should say that Bossuet addressed the conscience 
through the imagination, Bourdaloue through the judgment, 
and Massillon through the feelings : the first was the graphic 
painter; the second the convincing reasoner; and the third, 
the moving pleader. Flechier, another court-preacher, re- 
nowned chiefly in funeral oration, was a rhetorician more 
showy than solid, and by no means free from the affectation 
of the Precieuses. The monarch himself said : ^' Father 
Massillon, I have heard several great orators in my chapel, 
and I have been very much pleased with them ; but whenever 
I have heard you, I have been very much displeased with my- 



248 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

self/' Sucli testimoDy might decide the palm, were it not for 
the consideration, that ere Massillon ascended the pulpit, Louis 
XIV. had seen somewhat of the vanity of human greatness, 
the failure of human calculations, and the limits which there 
are to the power of gratification, even in passions laid under 
no restraint. His own experience had gone far to prove that 
all is vanity and vexation of spirit; and he was thus better 
prepared than in earlier years to listen to the dictates of evan- 
gelical truth. Bossuet is generally allowed to stand at the 
head of the list of French preachers. He was, besides, per- 
haps of all men of his day, the one who received most deeply 
the impress of the great monarch, and was the most distin- 
guished type of the age of Louis XIV., in all save its vices. 
It is for these reasons that we introduce him first to the reader. 

Bossuet, afterwards bishop of M^aux, was born at Dijon in 
1627, of a family of some repute in the legal profession, and 
educated at a school of the Jesuits, where he early gave indi- 
cations of that serious and studious disposition which charac- 
terized his maturer years.* He was but a child, when there 
fell into his hands a Latin Bible, the reading of which made 
an impression that remained with him through life. He 
always adverted to it with the liveliest interest. When re- 
moved for higher improvement to the College of Navarre, he 
studied Greek with enthusiasm, and made himself acquainted 
with the master-pieces of antiquity ; but the Holy Scriptures 
formed his principal reading. The philosophy of Descartes 
was beginning to attract attention ; but Bossuet had no know- 
ledge either of the exact or natural sciences, and drank deeply 
into nothing that was not immediately connected with religion. 
After his first public essay, when he was sixteen years of age, 
he was declared a prodigy; whereupon he was invited to the 

* He was so distinguished for his assiduity at school, that his associates, 
punning upon his name, used to say that he was a "Boa auetua aratro," 



BOSSUET. 249 

Hotel de Rambouillet, and was requested to give an impromptu 
sermon^ as a test of tliat fertility of tliouglit and facility of 
expression with wliicli he was so highly gifted. After a few 
moments' thought^ the young orator delivered a discourse 
which excited general admiration, and completely established 
his character as a preacher. On another occasion — that of 
his admission into the corporation of the college — ^his theme 
was a comparison of the glory of the present world with that 
of the just in the life to come. It was immediately after the 
peace of Westphalia, when the country rang with the heroic 
deeds of the Prince of Conde. In the midst of the discourse, 
the warrior himself entered the assembly, surrounded by an 
escort of his companions in arms. On the instant, Bossuet, 
without hesitation or appearance of interruption, addressed 
the young conqueror, and offered him, in the name of France, 
the just tribute of a nation's gratitude and admiration ; but, 
as with a prophet's authority, told him how vain and perish- 
able were the laurel-wreaths on his brow; how little to com- 
pare with the '^ crown of glory that fadeth not away.^^ The 
prince was deeply affected, and contracted a lasting friendship 
for the preacher, who, forty years afterwards, repeated the same 
truths over his tomb. 

The reputation of Bossuet grew and spread, but he seemed 
never to perceive his own success ; the Bible and the Christian 
Fathers were his constant companions ; and he declined pro- 
motion to the grand-mastership of Navarre, choosing rather 
to devote himself wholly to clerical duties. At the solicita- 
tion of the bishop of Metz, he entered into the controversy 
against the Protestants, and inspired even his opponents with 
respect for his talents, while he succeeded in making several 
distinguished converts to the old religion. At this time he 
was obliged frequently to visit Paris, where he preached before 
the royal family, and gained a high reputation as a pulpit 
orator; but he uniformly declined a permanent cure in the 



250 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

capital, preferring the retirement of Metz. His religious in- 
fluence became so great, tliat wlien tlie recluses of Port Royal 
refused to subscribe the required formulary with respect to 
the Jansenist doctrine, Bossuet was the man employed to 
bring them to reason. In the prosecution of this task, he 
treated them with great gentleness and forbearance ; invited 
them to submit to the church ; and set before them the blessed- 
ness of believing without examining, the privilege of not hav- 
ing to pilot themselves through the difficulties connected with 
religious truth, but possessing an infallible guide in the autho- 
rity of the church. The Port Royalists courted criticism and 
controversy at his hands, though remaining persuaded of the 
soundness of their own views. 

In 1669, Bossuet was elevated to the episcopate, after which 
lie gave place to Bourdaloue as a preacher, but still delivered 
funeral orations on great occasions. These are considered the 
choicest specimens of his eloquence. In 1670, he was ap- 
pointed preceptor to the dauphin, now nine years of age ; and 
it was for his instruction that he wrote the Discours sur V His- 
toire Universellej by which he is chiefly known to us ; and La 
Politique de V Ecriture JSainte, The latter is a series of Scrip- 
ture quotations, connected by appropriate reflections, which 
serve for connexion and transition. It treats not of govern- 
ment or political constitutions, or the balance of power; but it 
shows how sovereigns should be pious and just; and how their 
subjects should be -obedient and faithful; and what divine 
chastisements are reserved for a tyrannical monarch on the one 
hand, and for a corrupt and rebellious nation on the other. 
Here is no disquisition on the best mode of government, or the 
wisest code of laws ; all this Bossuet was content to leave to 
Divine Providence to establish in the course of events, while 
he taught sovereigns to administer, and subjects to obey, the 
laws and government as they found them. A letter which he 
addressed to Innocent XI., rendering, according to the pontiff*'s 



BOSSUET. 251 

desire, an account of his mode of education, possesses consi- 
derable interest, especially as showing the difference between 
his views and those of Fenelon on the same subject. In Bos- 
suet, there appears an upright and elevated mind, a correct 
idea of the end to be obtained, but an inflexibility which could 
never accommodate itself to the temper of his pupil, or adapt 
his language and manners to suit his age, or clothe his didac- 
tics in an attractive form. '' He knew man, but not men^'' 
says one ; he possessed a simple power of persuasion^ and an 
almost prophetic authority, which served him well in the 
pulpit to point out the path of duty, and insist on its being 
fulfilled ; but he had no power of individual adaptation, and 
therefore failed as a tutor, notwithstanding his success as a 
preacher. 

The Protestant controversy occupied Bossuet still more fully 
after the completion of the prince's education, and his own 
elevation to the bishopric of Meaux. It was this that elicited 
his famous Exposition de la Doctrine Catholique, in which the 
Protestants aver that he has not set forth the true dogmas of 
his church, but has modified them in such wise as to render 
them reasonable and attractive. A still more celebrated work 
is the Histoire des Variations y of which the leading principle 
is, that to forsake the authority of the church, leads one knows 
not whither ; that there can be no new religious views except 
false ones ; and that there is no escape from that faith which 
has been transmitted from age to age, except into the wide 
wastes of scepticism. " La veritable simplicite de la doctrine 
chretienne consiste essentiellement a toujours se determiner en 
ce qui regarde la foi, par ce fait certain : hier on croyait ainsi, 
done aujourd'hui il faut croire encore de m^me.^' The famous 
historian Gribbon is said to have been converted by this book. 
Bossuet' s calm, self-possessed, and courteous manner, gave him 
a great advantage in controversy; his tone was that of full 
persuasion in his own mind, with somewhat that conveyed the 



252 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

impression tliat the opponents of the apostolic church were 
giddy, fickle, and rebellious spirits, wandering hither and 
thither, seeking but never finding any firm footing. Yet there 
was no bitterness or haughtiness in the manner of announcing 
this. Bossuet thus became the great champion of the Romish 

^ faith in France ; and when some hope was entertained of 
r reuniting the Lutherans to the church, he was appointed to 

' negotiate with Leibnitz, whom the court of Brunswick had 
named on the part of the Lutherans. The correspondence 
between these two great men is still extant, and possesses con- 
siderable interest. 

Another controversy occupied the old age of Bossuet, and 
showed him to much less advantage. The mysticism of Ma- 
dame Guyon's"^ piety had proved very infectious among the 
higher circles, and the contagion had reached the court. 
Madame de Maintenon had introduced it at St. Cyr; and every 
day added to the number of Madame Guy on' s disciples. Her 
works were referred to Bossuet for examination ; and Fenelon, 
who had himself embraced her views, attended, not indeed as 
their defender, but as the modest interpreter of the lady's 
somewhat grotesque and incoherent language, which might 
have been taken for that of a maniac. He endeavored to show 
that she entertained no doctrine but that which had been held 
by St. Francis de Sales, St. Theresa, and other Mystics ap- 
proved by the church. But Bossuet regarded as highly dan- 
gerous this depreciation of good works and outward forms, 
and this search for undefinable frames and feelings. Guyon 
and Fenelon, indeed, maintained that a holy practice would be 
the inevitable consequence of their beatific contemplations and 
holy raptures ; but Bossuet could not believe that one should 
profess to himself as an end a thing so intangible as a frame 
of mind into which one might get in and out without exactly 

* See Upham's Life of Madame Guyon, 2 vols., Now York, 1847. 



BOSSUET. 253 

knowing how. Not tliat he denied the reality and blessedness 
of a high degree of religious feeling. He had himself said : 
'^ Lti s'entendrait la derniere consolation de Famour divin, dans 
un endroit de Fame si profond et si retire^ que les sens n^en 
soup§onnent rien, tant il est eloigne de leur region ; mais^ pour 
s^expliquer sur cette matiere, il faudrait un langage que le 
monde n^entendrait pas.'' 

Some new extravagances of the Mystics determined Bossuet 
to proceed to extremities against this system : Madame Guyon 
was arrested ; the bishops were directed to prohibit the circu- 
lation of her works in their respective dioceses ; and Bossuet 
wrote a refutation of her doctrines. Fenelon would not lend 
himself to the persecution of a lady whom he greatly admired, 
and whom he believed to be as blameless in life as she was reli- 
gious in heart. He thought they had taken occasion from her 
mode of expressing herself, and that her words rather than 
her sentiments were objectionable. Bossuet was angry at this 
modifying, manoeuvring, and refining; this insinuation, that 
only certain minds were capable of comprehending Madame 
Guyon ; in short, this attempt to clear mysticism of all that 
could be deemed reprehensible. While he was composing his 
book against the Mystics, Fenelon wrote his 31aximes des 
SainteSj in which he endeavored to show, that the views of 
the Quietists were those of others whom the church had even 
canonized and honored with public worship. Louis XIV., 
through Bossuet's influence, banished Fenelon from the court, 
disgraced his friends, and sent the Maximes to Rome for con- 
demnation. The quarrel became warmer every day. Bossuet, 
irritated at the moderate and submissive tone of his opponent, 
forgot his former character, and became perfectly furious. Per- 
haps there has never been a religious controversy more warm 
and more sincere; in which there was less appearance of selfish 
rivalry, or more pure zeal for what each believed to be the 
truth. It was for the same creed, and within the same church ; 
22 



254 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

the combatants differing only as to the most acceptable mode 
of loving and serving the Supreme Being. The pope was 
induced to pass a censure on the Maximes, but one which his 
holiness deemed hardly necessary ; and Bossuet was dissatisfied 
that he had not gone deeper into the matter of the contro- 
versy. Meanwhile, the gentleness of Fenelon gained over 
many who had not subtilty enough to enter into the merits 
of his opinions ; and if Bossuet had been capable of attaching 
any importance to the popular voice, he must have been grieved 
at the universal veneration with which Fenelon was regarded. 

The last labors of Bossuet were devoted to the discipline of 
the clergy, whom he wished to restore to a scrupulous observ- 
ance of their duties and fulfilment of their vows. He had 
nearly attained his seventy-sixth year, his mind preserving its 
wonted vigor, when he was attacked by a painful disease, and 
fever supervened. He died at Paris, April 12, 1704, and was 
buried in the cathedral at Meaux. 

It has been said, that French eloquence never appeared with 
so little art, so little study of effect, as in Bossuet. It was a 
great mind discovering itself without a veil, and carrying all 
along with it. The choice of words, the art of arrangement, 
the harmony of sounds, the elevated or the familiar — all were 
nothing to him ; everything was good that served to express 
his thoughts. There is even a rudeness in his simplicity, 
which seems to disdain every attempt to gratify or seduce the 
reader. His familiarity with the language of inspiration im- 
parted to his prelections a tone of almost prophetic authority. 
His eloquence appeared as a native instinct — a gift direct from 
Heaven, neither marred nor improved by the study of human 
rules. His works — controversial, historical, devotional — have 
passed through numerous editions, and the most celebrated of 
them have been translated into our own language. 

His sermons were paternal and familiar exhortations : he 
seldom prepared them, but, abandoning himself to the inspira- 



BOSSUET. 255 

tion of the moment, was now simple and touching, now ener- 
getic and sublime. An admiring recollection of them has 
been handed down from generation to generation among the 
people of his charge at Meaux. 

The following is the concluding passage of his funeral ora- 
tion over the Prince of Conde, already alluded to ; and the 
more interesting, as with this discourse Bossuet terminated his 
career as an orator. Having briefly alluded to the splendid 
deeds of the hero, and then to the qualities of his mind and 
heart, he proceeded to consider him as a Christian, traced the 
progress of truth in his soul, and leading the hearers to the 
death-bed scene, described the last victory of the prince, that 
of faith over unbelief, and exclaimed : — 

Que se faisait-il dans cette ame ? quelle nouvelle lumiere lui appa- 
raissait ? quel soudain rayon per9ait la nue, et faisait comme evanouir 
en ce moment avec toutes les ignorances des sens les tenebres memes, 
si je I'ose dire, et les saintes obscurites de la foi ? Que devinrent alors 
ces beaux titres dont notre orgueil est flatte ? Dans I'approclie d'un 
si beau jour, et des la premiere atteinte d'une si vive lumiere, combien 
promptement disparaissent tons les fantomes du monde ! que I'eclat 
de la plus belle victoire parait sombre ! qu'on en meprise la gloire, et 
qu'on veut de mal a ces faibles yeux qui s'y sont laisse eblouir ! Venez, 
peuples, venez maintenant ; mais venez plutot, princes et seigneurs, 
et vous qui jugez la terre, et vous qui ouvrez aux hommes les portes 
du ciel, et vous plus que tous les autres, princes et princesses, nobles 
rejetons de tant de rois, lumi^res de la France, mais aujourd'hui 
obscurcies et couvertes de votre douleur comme d'un nuage ; venez 
voir le peu qui nous reste d'une si auguste naissance, de tant de gran- 
deur, de tant de gloire. Jetez les yeux de toutes parts : voila tout ce 
qu'a pu faire la magnificence et la pi^te pour honorer un heros ; des 
titres, des inscriptions, vaines marques de ce qui n'est plus ; des 
figures qui semblent pleurer autour d'un tombeau et des fragiles 
images d'une douleur que le temps emporte avec tout le reste ; des 
colonnes qui semblent vouloir porter jusqu'au ciel le magnifique 
temoignage de notre n^ant ; et rien enfin ne manque dans tous ces 
bonneurs que celui a qui on les rend. Pleurez done sur ces faibles 
restes de la vie bumaine, pleurez sur cette triste immortalitd que nous 



256 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

donnons aux h^ros ; mais approchez en particulier, 6 vous qui courez 
avec tant d'ardeur dans la carriere de la gloire, ames guerrieres et 
intr^pides ; quel autre fut plus digne de vous commander ? mais dans 
quel autre avez-vous trouve le commandement plus honnete ? pleurez 
done ce grand capitaine, et dites en gemissant: Voila celui qui nous 
menait dans les hasards ; sous lui se sont formes tant de renommes 
capitaines que ses exemples ont eleves aux premiers honneurs de la 
guerre : son ombre eut pu encore gagner des batailles, et voila que 
dans son silence son nom meme nous anime, et ensemble il nous aver- 
tit que pour trouver a la mort quelque reste de nos travaux, et n'arriver 
pas sans ressource a notre eternelle demeure, avec le roi de la terre il 
faut encore servir le roi du ciel. Servez done ce roi immortel et si 
plein de misericorde, qui vous comptera un soupir et un verre d'eau 
donn^ en son nom plus que tons les autres ne feront jamais tout votre 
.sang repandu ; et commencez a compter le temps de vos utiles services 
du jour que vous vous serez donnes a un maitre si bienfaisant. Et 
vous, ne viendrez-vous pas a ce triste monument, vous, dis-je, qu'il a 
bien voulu mettre au rang de ses amis ? tons ensemble, en quelque 
degr^ de sa confiance qu'il vous ait reyus, environnez ce tombeau, ver- 
sez des larmes avec des pri^res, et, admirant dans un si grand prince 
une amitie si commode et un commerce si doux, conservez le souvenir 
d'un heros dont la bont4 avait egale le courage. Ainsi puisse-t-il 
toujours vous etre un cber entretien ! ainsi puissiez-vous proliter de 
ses vertus ! et que sa mort, que vous deplorez, vous serve a la fois de 
consolation et d'exemple ! Pour moi, s'il m'est permis, apres tons les 
autres, de venir rendre les derniers devoirs a ce tombeau, 6 prince, le 
digne sujet de nos louanges et de nos regrets, vous vivrez eternelle- 
ment dans ma mtooire ; votre image y sera trac^e, n6n point avec 
cette audace qui promettait la victoire, non, je ne veux rien voir en 
vous de ce que la mort y efface ; vous aurez dans cette image des traits 
immortels ; je vous y verrai tel que vous etiez a ce dernier jour sous 
la main de Dieu, lorsque sa gloire sembla commencer a vous appa- 
raitre. C'est \k que je vous verrai plus triomphant qu'a Fribourg et a 
Rocroi ; et, ravi d'un si beau triomphe, je dirai en action de graces 
ces belles paroles du bien-aim6 disciple : Et hcec est victoria quce 
vincit mundum, fides nostra: *' La veritable victoire, celle qui met sous 
nos pieds le monde entier, c'est notre foi," Jouissez, prince, de cette 
victoire, jouissez-en (jternellement par I'immortelle vertu de ce sacri- 
fice ; agrdez ces derniers efforts d'une voix qui vous fut connue : vous 



BOURDALOUE. 257 

mettrez fin a tous ces discours. Au lieu de deplorer la mort des autres, 
grand prince, dorenavant je veux apprendre de vous a rendre la mienne 
sainte : heureux si, averti par ces cheveux blancs du compte que je 
dois rendre de mon administration, je reserve au troupeau que je dois 
nourrir de la parole de vie les restes d'une voix qui tombe et d'une 
ardeur qui s'eteint ! 

BouRDALOUE was born at Bourges^ August 20^ 1632. 
At the age of sixteen he joined the society of Jesuits. He 
began to preach when he was twenty-four years old. In 1670 
he appeared at court. The king was so pleased with his elo- 
quence that he required him to preach ten series of sermons 
in the royal chapel. He used to say that he had rather hear 
Bourdaloue's old sermons than the new ones of any one else. 
Bourdaloue had little of the fervor and grandeur of Bossuet. 
He was logical and accurate. He reached the heart through 
the reason, rather than through the emotions. He committed 
his sermons to memory, and recited them. When asked which 
of them he liked best, he answered, ^Uhe one that I know 
best/^ He has been styled ''le predicateur des rois, et le roi 
des predicateursJ^ He died about a month after Bossuet, 
May 13, 1704.* 

In the following passage from his sermon on The Last Judg- 
ment, we have a fair specimen of the court style of preaching 
we have referred to as combining the high tone of evangelical 
faithfulness with a due admixture of respect, and even, as it 
seems to us, of flattery towards the royal auditor : — 

Aussi est-ce proprement aux Monarques et aux Souverains, qu'il 
appartient de juger ; et jamais la majeste d'un Roi n'est plus auguste, 
que quand il tient son lit de justice, et qu'il paroit sur le tribunal. 
Encore plus venerable, quand c'est un Roi qui ajoute a 1' eclat de la 
couronne les lumieres d'une sagesse toute royale : un Roi qui sait faire 
le discernement de ses sujets, et peser le merite dans une juste 

* See Bungener's Preacher and tbo King, or Bourdaloue in the Court of 
Louis XIV. 

22 * 



258 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

balance ; qui n'a pour le crime que des chatimens, tandis que toutes 
ses recompenses sont pour la vertu ; qui non seulement fait etat de 
venger les injustices et les yiolences, mais qui s'applique a reformer 
la justice meme ; qui en corrige les abus, qui en r^tablit le bon 
ordre ; qui, sans eloigner personne de son trone, prete I'oreille aux 
humbles supplications des petits, ^coute les plaintes des particuliers, 
et par-la tient les juges et les magistrats dans le devoir : enfin qui se 
voyant au dessus de tons, n'a rien plus a coeur que d'etre equitable 
envers tons. Car qu'y a-t-il qui nous represente mieux sur la terre 
le jugement de Dieu, et qui en soit une image plus sensible et une 
preuve plus authentique ? 

Mais, sire, si c'est le propre des Rois de juger les peuples, il n'est 
pas moins Trai que c'est le propre de Dieu de juger les Rois; et 
comme le grand privilege de la souverainet^ est de ne pouvoir etre 
juge que de Dieu seul, on pent dire que la grande marque de I'auto- 
rite supreme de Dieu est d'etre lui seul le Juge de tons les souve- 
rains. II nous I'a lui-meme marqu^ en cent endroits de I'Ecriture; 
et si son jugement doit etre terrible pour toutes les conditions des 
hommes, il semble n^anmoins qu'il aflPecte de la faire paroitre plus 
redoutable pour les Grands et pour les Rois de la terre : Terribili apud 
Reges terrce. 

C'est de ce jugement, Sire, oil les Rois seront appeles, aussi bien 
que les peuples, que j'ai a parler aujourd'hui. Autrefois saint Paul 
prechant cette matiere en presence meme des infideles et des paiens, 
la traitoit avec tant de force et tant d'energie, qu'ils en etoient emus, 
saisis, efifrayes : Disputante autem illo de justitia et castiiate, et de judi- 
cio futuro, tremef actus Felix, Je n'ai ni le zble, ni I'eloquence de saint 
Paul : mais aussi j'ai I'avantage de parler devant un Roi Chretien et 
tr^s-Chretien ; devant un Roi docile aux v^rit^s de la religion, et 
dispose non seulement a les ^couter, mais a en profiter. Ainsi j'ai 
droit d'esperer de mon minist^re, tout indigne que j'en suis, un suc- 
ces beaucoup plus heureux. J'ai besoin pour cela des lumieres du 
Saint-E sprit. 

Massillon was born iu 1663, June 24tli, at Hieres, in 
Provence. At an early age he gave promise of future emi- 
nence. But, finding bis ambition too strong, he retired to an 
obscure monastery, and devoted himself to penitence and study. 



MASSILLON. 259 

He was, however, soon summoned to Paris to take charge of 
a seminary. He there had an opportunity to hear the cele- 
brated pulpit orators of the capital. He said that he should 
not imitate them, if he preached. He resolved that he 
would persuade and win by the appeals of love, rather 
than conquer by argumentation, and by presenting merely 
the terrors of the law. His superiors in the order of the 
Oratory, to which he belonged, required him to preach, and 
in 1699 he gave the course of sermons for Lent at Paris. 
Everybody was fascinated by his style. The streets which 
led to his church were crowded with carriages. The great 
cathedral of Notre Dame was filled to overflowing, whenever 
he preached there. The enthusiasm of the king and the 
court was equally great, when he appeared in the royal chapel 
at Versailles. 

It was his fortune to deliver the funeral oration of the 
Prince of Conti in 1709, of the Dauphin in 1710, and finally 
of the King in 1715. Few scenes could be more impressive 
than that, which was witnessed in the royal chapel at Ver- 
sailles, when the last rites were paid to the Grand Monarque. 
Massillon took for his text the words of Solomon, '' Void que 
je suis devenu grand.'* He solemnly pronounced the words, 
paused, looked fixedly upon the assembly, turned slowly towards 
the symbols of mourning with which the chapel was hung, then 
towards the dark mausoleum in the centre of the chapel, and 
exclaimed, " Dieu seid est grand ^ mes freres.'* 

The regent called him to preach a Car erne before the young 
king. He composed the ten sermons, which are known by the 
name of the Petit Careme, in six weeks. He was afterwards 
made bishop of Clermont. In 1719 he was received by the 
Academy. He spent the closing years of his life in deeds of 
charity and devotion to the labors of his diocese. As he passed 
along the streets of the town in which he lived; it is said that 



260 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

the grateful people used to kneel down, crying ^' Vive notre 
PereJ^ He died of apoplexy, September 28, 1742, 

His style is ricli, almost to verbosity. It is exceedingly 
flowing and easy, tender and earnest. Voltaire was accus- 
tomed to have tbe Petit Careme lying on bis table, as one of 
tbe best models of eloquence. It won for its author the title 
of tbe Racine of tbe pulpit. 

We give an extract from bis sermon on ^^ Tbe Small Num- 
ber of the Elect.'' It is said that when this passage was deli- 
vered, the vast audience arose from their seats, thrilled with 
admiration; or stricken with terror. 

II n'est peut-etre personne ici, qui ne puisse dire de soi: ** Je vis 
comme le grand nombre, comme ceux de mon rang, de mon age, de 
mon ^tat; je suis perdu, si je meurs dans cette voie." Or, quo! de 
plus propre a eflfrayer une ame a qui il reste encore quelque soin de 
son salut ? Cependant c'est la multitude, qui ne tremble point ; il n'est 
qu'un petit nombre de justes, qui opbrent a I'ecart leur salut avec 
crainte; tout le reste estcalme: on salt en general que le grande 
nombre se damne ; mais on se flatte qu'apr^s avoir vecu avec la mul- 
titude, ou sera discern^ a la mort; chacun se met dans le cas d'une 
exception chim^rique; chacun augure favorablement pour soi. 

Et c'est pour cela que je m'arrete a vous, mes freres, qui etes ici 
assembles: je ne parle plus du reste des hommes ; je vous regarde 
comme si vous etiez seuls sur la terre : et voici la pensee qui m'occupe 
et qui m'epouvante. Je suppose que c'est ici votre derniere heure et la 
fm de Funivers; que les cieux vont s'ouvrir sur vos tetes ; Jesus- 
Christ paraitre dans sa gloire au milieu de ce temple, et que vous n'y 
etes assembles que pour I'attendre, et comme des criminels tremblants, 
a qui Ton va prononcer, ou une sentence de grace, ou un arret de 
mort (iternelle: car vous avez beau vous flatter, vous mourrez tels que 
vous etes aujourd'hui; tons ces desirs de changements, qui vous amu- 
sent, vous amuseront jusqu'au lit de la mort ; c'est I'experience de tons 
les sicicles: tout ce que vous trouverez alors en vous de nouveau sera 
peut-etre un corapte un pcu plus grand que ce que vous auriez 
aujourd'hui a rendre ; et sur ce que vous ser!ez, si Ton venait vous 
juger dans le moment, vous pouvez presque decider de ce qui vouf 
arrivera au sortir de la vie. 



MASSILLON — SAURIN. 261 

Or, je vous demande, et je vous le demande frapp^ de terreur, ne 
s^parant pas en ce point mon sort du votre, et me mettant dans la 
meme disposition ou je souliaite que vous entriez ; je vous demande 
done : si J^sus-Christ paraissait dans ce temple, au milieu de cette 
assembl^e, la plus auguste de I'univers, pour nous juger, pour faire le 
terrible discernement des boucs et des brebis, croyez-vous que le plus 
grand nombre de tout ce que nous sommes ici fut place a la droite ? 
Croyez-vous que les choses du moins fussent egales? Croyez-vous 
qu'il s'y trouvat seulement dix justes, que le Seigneur ne put trouver 
autrefois en cinq villes tout enti^res ? Je vous le demande ; vous 
I'ignorez, et je I'ignore moi-meme ; vous seul, o mon Dieu ! connaissez 
ceux, qui vous appartiennent ; mais si nous ne connaissons pas ceux 
qui lui appartiennent, nous savons du moins que les p^cheurs ne lui 
appartiennent pas. Or, qui sont les fideles ici assembles ? Les titres 
et les dignites ne doivent etre comptes pour rien ; vous en serez 
d^pouilles devant J^sus-Christ : qui sont-ils ? beaucoup de pecheurs 
qui ne veulent pas se convertir ; encore plus qui le voudraient, mais 
qui different leur conversion ; plusieurs autres qui ne se convertissent 
jamais que pour retomber ; enfin un grand nombre qui croient n' avoir 
pas besoin de conversion : voila le parti des r^prouves. Retranchez ces 
quatre sortes de pecheurs de cette assemblee sainte ; car ils en seront 
retranches au grand jour; paraissez maintenant, justes; oil etes- 
vous ? Restes d'Israel, passez a la droite : froment de Jesus-Christ, 
demelez-vous de cette paille destinee au feu : 6 Dieu ! oii sont vos 
^lus ? et que reste-t-il pour votre partage ? 

France does not acknowledge tlie Protestant Saurin (1677- 
1730), as the revocation of the Edict of Nantes expatriated 
him in childhood ; but his sermons, characterized by powerful, 
manly, vehement, and often touching eloquence, original con- 
ception, and forcible argument, occupy a distinguished place 
in the theological literature of the French language. 

Sacred eloquence was not the only kind exercised in France 
at this time. It is true that political or parliamentary oratory 
was as yet unknown ; for the parliaments, which were mere 
corporate judicatures, no sooner touched on matters of state 
and government, than Louis XIV. entered, booted and spurred, 
with whip in hand, and not figuratively but literally lashed the 



262 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

refractory deliberation into silence and obedience. There was 
another species, however, though of less celebrity and later 
growth than that of the pulpit — the judiciary, or eloquence 
of the bar — which enjoyed a considerable degree of freedom. 
The advocates even then claimed a sort of immunity from the 
curious eye of the Jesuits and of the police, both as regarded 
their opinions and their libraries ; and the bar long cherished 
and vindicated whatever of constitutional and legal right existed 
in France. 

Forensic eloquence, however, had not wholly escaped the 
affected jargon of euphuism. Law and reason were too often 
overlaid by a fantastic abuse of classic and Scripture citations; 
worthless conceits, and impertinent erudition ; and Lemaitre, 
the earliest orator of this period that demands our attention, 
was by no means free from these vices ; yet he had fire and 
feeling, and was more imaginative, ardent, and brilliant than 
those of his followers, who are considered the reformers of 
French eloquence in this respect. 

Patru, Pellisson, Terrasson, Cochin, D'Aguesseau, were the 
men who successfully purified and elevated the language of 
the tribunals. Patru cultivated ancient literature, and was 
the first, says Voltaire, who introduced a pure style at the 
bar. ^^ His pleadings,'^ says Hume, '' are very elegant, and 
give us room to imagine what so fine a genius could have per- 
formed in questions concerning public liberty or slavery, peace 
or war, who exerts himself with such success in debates con- 
cerning the price of an old horse, or the gossipping story of a 
quarrel betwixt an abbess and her nuns.'' 

Patru was followed and greatly surpassed by Pellisson, the 
confidential secretary of Fouquet. His pleadings, which Vol- 
taire has pronounced equal to Cicero's Oration for Ligarius, 
were composed during the time that he was incarcerated in 



PELLISSON. 263 

the Bastille as tlie accomplice of his fallen patron. They were 
not intended for personal delivery, but they possess an interest 
of their own, as the offspring of a disinterested and fearless 
friendship supplicating for mercy without abandoning the high 
ground of innocence and justice; stating hardships without 
seeming to complain ; working upon the feelings and minister- 
ing to the vanity of the judge, without exciting in the bosom 
of the jealous tyrant the apprehension that his weakness was 
played upon, or his understanding slighted. We give in his 
own language a few sentences from his first pleading, addressed 
directly to Louis XIV. He is deprecating the mode of trial 
by special commissioners, instead of before the ordinary tri- 
bunals. 

S'il faut enfin entendre la voix du peuple, cette voix, sire, qui est si 
souvent celle de Dieu, cette voix qui fait, a vrai dire, la gloire des rois, 
qui parle si magnifi quern en t aujourd'hui, par toute la terre, des vertus 
deV. M.,* elle dira a V. M. que tout ce qui n'est point naturel et 
ordinaire, lui est suspect — qu'un innocent meme, condamne par notre 
parlement, passe toujours pour coupable — qu'un coupable meme con- 
damne par des commissaires, laisse toujours au public et a la posterity 
quelque soup9on d'innocence — qu'enfin le general du monde regarde 
ces deux sortes de juges comme deux choses tout a fait differentes — 
temoin la reponse de ce bon religieux, que I'histoire n'a pas trouvee 
indigne d'etre rapportee, quand le roi rran9ois I. regardant a Mar- 
coussy le tombeau d'un surintendant immol^, sous un des rois prec^- 
dens, aux jalousies de la cour, et a la passion d'un due de Bourgogne, 
et ce grand prince disant que c'etait dommage qu'on elit fait mourir 
un tel homme par justice — " ce n'est pas par justice, sire," repondit 
iDgenument le religieux, "c'est par commissaires." 

Towards the close, he afi'ects a sudden transition from the 
justice of the king to his mercy — affects, we say, because he 
had been covertly appealing to it before. 

Jusqu'ici, sire, je n'ai parle qu'a la justice de V. M. — Que cette 
justice meme me permette maintenant de m'adresser a ses autres 
vertus, a sa bonte, a sa clemence, a sa sagesse; si j'ai defendu M. 

* Votre Majeste. 



264 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Fouquet comme innocent, que je parle encore pour lui comme cou- 
pable, en faisant faire a V. M. certaines reflexions generales, mais 
importantes, qui le supposant meme coupable, demandent son salut 
et sa grace a un prince tel que V. M. Que V. M. me pardonne, s'il 
lui plait, cette longueur en un sujet important ; je vais finir, je ne lui 
dirai rien de commun, rien que de grand, rien que d'illustre, rien que 
de digne d'un roi. 

In his concluding peroration, lie anticipates tlie judgment 
of posterity upon Louis XIV. ; but this passage, though 
highly extolled by French critics, is too exaggerated for modern 
and British taste. The subsequent career of Pellisson did not 
realize the expectation that might have been formed either 
of his superior talents or disinterested character. Being re- 
leased from the Bastille, after a captivity of nearly five years, 
he employed his talents in composing panegyrics upon the 
king from whom he had suffered such treatment. Moreover, 
he abandoned the religion of a Huguenot, and embraced the 
Romish faith ; became an abbe and a courtier ; made his for- 
tune; and composed Prayers during Mass, Pieces of Gal- 
lantry, A Treatise on the Eucharist, and Amatory Verses to 
Olympia, It is agreed, however, that he died unsacramented, 
and, as some say, sceptical and indiiferent on the subject of 
religion. 

The most accomplished judicial orator, however, of this age, 
if he does not more properly belong to the eighteenth century, 
was D'Aguesseau, afterwards chancellor of France. He 
never practised as a mere advocate, having commenced his 
career at an early age with a function in the magistracy, which, 
unlike that of England, afforded frequent and favorable occa- 
dons for eloquence in the distribution of justice. 



ROCHEFOUCAULD. 265 

XVL— THE MORALISTS. 

ROCHEFOUCAULD — LA BRUYERE — NICOLE. 

Francis, Duke of Rochefoucauld,* was the representa- 
tive of one of those noble families wliose power had often mea- 
sured itself with that of the sovereign, but had for some time 
been forced, by the vigorous policy of Richelieu, to restrain 
itself within its own feudal domains. He was born at the 
paternal castle of Rochefoucauld, in Angoumois, in 1613, two 
years after the assassination of Henry IV. ; and first came to 
court during the height of the cardinal's power, ^^ a young man 
of prepossessing appearance and dignified carriage,' ' as Madame 
Maintenon describes him; ^^of considerable talent, too, but 
little knowledge, his education having been neglected. '^ 

When, on the death of Cardinal Richelieu, the nobles 
deemed it their turn to lift their heads again^ Rochefoucauld, 
in common with other nobles, was drawn into those conflicts 
known as the Wars of the Fronde, as the party was called that 
opposed the queen-regent and her minister. Cardinal Mazarin. 
Yet it would seem that he scarcely knew what he desired, 
and had no motive for either fighting or intriguing except the 
mere restlessness of his spirit, and his attachment to the 
Duchess of Longueville ; according to the well-known couplet 
which he wrote at the bottom of her portrait: — 

Pour meriter son coeur, pour plaire a ses beaux yeux, 
J'ai fait la guerre aux rois : je Paurois faite aux dieux. 

Truth is, he was hurried into a course of action by passions 
stronger than his reason, and events yet stronger than his pas- 
sions. A serious wound, however, which he received in the 
battle of the Faubourg of St. Antoine, disabled him from con- 

* A translation of his Maxims was published at New York in 1S51. For 
a sketch of his life see Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
23 



266 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

tinuiDg in the struggle. He wisely, therefore, resolved to 
extricate himself from the web in which he was entangled : 
quarrelled with the duchess; received permission from the 
Prince of Conde to dissolve his alliance with him ; committed 
his estate to his steward, to endeavor to retrieve it from the 
utter ruin which the war had nearly involved ; restricted him- 
self to a small yearly sum to live upon ; and being afterwards 
included in the amnesty, took up his residence at Paris, and 
turned moralist. He was one of the brightest ornaments of 
the court circle of Louis XIV., whose confidence, however, 
he never entirely regained. His chosen friends in his declin- 
ing years were Madame de Sevigne, one of the most accom- 
plished women of the age, and Madame de Lafayette, who 
says of him : '^ He gave me intellect, and I reformed his 
heart.'' It would seem that it had much need of reformation, 
after the life he had spent among the fools, knaves, and de- 
moralized women of the Fronde ; and, moreover, that if the 
lady succeeded in removing the taint from his heart, it con- 
tinued to stain his understanding. It was at this time that 
he composed his famous Reflexions et Sentences, ou Maximes 
Morales, which being pablished in 1665, gained for ih.e author 
a lasting reputation, no less from the perfection of his style 
than the boldness of his paradoxes. The leading peculiarity 
of this work is the principle, that self-interest is the ruling 
motive in corrupt human nature, placing every virtue as well 
as vice under contribution to itself. Some of the maxims are 
obvious enough truths, as the following : — 

There is in the human heart a perpetual generation of passions ; so 
that the destruction of one is almost always the birth of another. 

We promise according to our hopes ; we perform according to our 
fears. 

No one is either so happy or so unhappy as he imagines. 

Fortune turns everything to the advantage of those whom she 
favors. 



ROCHEFOUCAULD. 267 

There is but one true love, but there are a thousand copies. 

It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by 
them. 

A fool has not stuff enough in him to be virtuous. 

Our minds are more indolent than our bodies. 

Jealousy is always born with love, but does not always die with it. 

It would seem that nature has concealed talents and capacities in 
the depths of our minds of which we have no knowledge : that pas- 
sion alone can bring these into day, and give us more certain and per- 
fect views than art can afford. 

We arrive quite new at the different ages of life, and often want 
experience in spite of the number of years we have lived. 

It is being truly virtuous to be willing to be always exposed to the 
view of the virtuous. 

Others are somewhat subtle, as the celebrated one, ^^ that we 
often find something in the misfortunes of our best friends that 
is not displeasing to us.^' 

It is generally agreed that Rochefoucauld^ s views of human 
nature were perverted by the specimens of it which he had 
first and most intimately known. The Fronde was the soil in 
which his Maximes had root, though better times softened 
their harshness, and inspired better and higher thoughts. It 
usually happens that public convulsions give birth to heroism 
as well as crime, and that the cruelties of war and massacre 
are partly redeemed by courage and self-sacrifice ; but, in the 
wars of the Fronde, there were neither any splendid actions 
nor any signal crimes. Vice and folly, a restless desire of 
power and an eager yet aimless party-spirit, animated the 
Frondeurs ; their war was a contest of knaves, each fighting 
for his own private ends, under color of patriotism, and receiv- 
ing defeat as his well-merited punishment. Hence the low 
opinion which Eochefoucauld formed of human nature. His 
Memoires sur le Regne cV Anne d^AutricJie, embody the story 
of the Fronde ; and his Maximes j the moral philosophy he 



268 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

deduced from it. He died in 1680, in the arms of Bossuet, 
leaving poor Madame de Lafayette lonely and inconsolable. 

While Rochefoucauld was taking so deep and so melancholy 
a view of human nature, through the medium of an age which 
had forced every character into unnatural extremes, the young 
Bruyere was serving his apprenticeship as an observer, in aj 
comparatively disciplined society, and at a time when both! 
virtues and vices had regained their natural proportions. 

The fame of his writings contrasts singularly with the ob- 
scurity of his life. He was exercising a kind of clerkship in 
a provincial town, when Bossuet brought him to Paris, it is 
not known on what recommendation, to teach history to the 
young prince, Louis de Bourbon. After the education of the 
prince was completed, La Bruyere continued a member of the 
household. Being naturally an observer and a moralist, he 
published a translation of the Characters of Theophrastus ; 
and afterwards, in 1687, appended to it a similar work of his 
own, Les Oaracteres de Notre Siecle, in which he excelled his 
model in the exactness and variety of the portraits, as well as 
in the excellence of the style. It was read with avidity, not 
only on account of its intrinsic merit, but because it was be- 
lieved that a living name might be written under every one 
of the portraits, though they were professedly delineations, not 
of individuals, but of characters. 

As the PensSes of Pascal and the Maximes of Rochefoucauld 
were then in every one's hands, La Bruyere deemed it neces- 
sary to anticipate the charge of imitation ; and to this we owe 
the following characteristic remarks on his predecessors : — 

L'un [the Thoughts'], par Fengagement de son auteur, fait servir 
la metaphysique ^ la religion, fait connaitre Tame, ses passions, sea 
vices, traite les grands et les serieux motifs pour eonduire a la vertu, 
et veut rendre rhomme chroticn. 

L'autre [the Maxiim'], qui est la production d'un esprit instruit 



BRUYERE. 269 

par le commerce du monde, et dont la d^licatesse ^tait ^gale a la 
penetration, observant que I'amour-propre est dans Thomme la cause 
de tous ses faibles, I'attaque sans relache, quelque part oh il le 
trouve ; et cette unique pensee, comme multipliee en mille autres, a 
toujours, par le choix des mots et la vari6t6 de I'expression, la grace 
de la nouveaute. 

After whicli La Bruyere thus cliaracterizes Hmself : — 

L'on ne suit aucune de ces routes dans I'ouvrage qui est joint a la 
traduction des Car adores [of Theophrastus] ; il est tout different des 
deux autres que je viens de toucher; moins sublime que le premier 
et moins delicat que le second, il ne tend qu'a rendre I'liomme raison- 
nable, mais par des voies simples et communes. 

Pascal liad pronounced upon the imperfection of human 
nature with his natural energy, rather than exposed it by care- 
ful analysis. He had declared the depths of its evils, and the 
powerlessness of its remedies ; he had thrown a blasting light 
on those things which men are wont to call the guarantees of 
civil society; and bj proving all natural virtue and all human 
remedies unworthy of confidence, had sought to drive them 
upon faith by pursuing them with despair. Rochefoucauld, 
prosecuting his pitiless analysis of the disguises of the human 
heart, and leading his readers to suspect their most natural 
emotions, had well-nigh taken away the desire of ingenuous 
virtue, by proving its impossibility. But La Bruyere endea- 
vored to make the most of our nature, such as it is ; to render 
men better, even with their imperfections ; and to assist them 
by a moral code proportioned to their strength, or rather to 
their weakness. However his philosophy might and must 
have been elevated and purified by the genius of Christianity, 
it is unquestionably based professedly on reason, and not on 
revelation. Yet such was the predominance of the religious 
feeling in the age of Louis XIV., that this author, in his last 
edition of the OaractereSj offered the following explanation, 
which, it must be admitted, is more prudent than true : — 
23* 



270 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Les hommes de gout, pieux et ^clair^s, dit-il, n'ont-ils pas observe 
que de seize chapitres qui composent le livre des CaracthreSy il y en 
a quinze qui, s'attachant a decouvrir le faux et le ridicule qui se ren- 
contrent dans les objets des passions et des attachements humains, ne 
tendent qu'a miner les obstacles qui affaiblis&ent d'abord, et qui 
eteignent ensuite dans tous les hommes, la connaissance de Bieu ; 
qu'ainsi ils ne sont que des preparations au seizieme et dernier 
chapitre, oiiTatheisme est attaque et peut-etre confondu, otiles preuves 
de Dieu, une partie du moins de celles que les faibles hommes sont 
capables de recevoir dans leur esprit, sont apportees, ou la providence 
de Dieu est defendu centre I'insulte et les plaintes des libertins ? 

Such an explanation speaks volumes of tlie necessity that there 
was in those days for recognising Christianity as the basis of 
virtue, and of the difficulties which an author had to encounter 
in setting up a system of godless philosophy; but it ought not 
to deceive any one as to the real character and tendency of 
La Bruyere's work. It is in the Essai sur les Moyens de 
Gonserver la Paix avec les Hommes, by NicOLE the Port 
Eoyalist, that we must look for a system of truly Christian 
ethics, derived from the precepts of revelation, and elegant as 
to their style, though displaying little original talent. 

The only speculative philosopher worthy of mention in this 
age is Malebranche. He was a disciple of Descartes, and 
maintained the doctrines of his great master on the method 
of reasoning, on the nature of the soul, and on the automatism 
of the lower animals. But instead of admitting innate ideas, 
he held that we see all in Deity, and that it is only by our 
spiritual union with the Being who knows all things that we 
know anything. He proved the existence of the body from 
revelation, denied the action of the soul on the body, and even 
the action of corporeal substances on each other, attributing 
their reciprocal influences entirely to divine intervention. He 
professed optimism, explained the existence of evil by saying 
that Deity nets only as a universal cause, and founded all 



EOSSUET — MEZERAY. 271 

morality on the idea of order. Such are the leading doctrines 
of Malebranche's Eeclierclie a la Veritej and such his effort 
to reconcile philosophy with revelation ; a task which would 
have been deemed superfluous either in the preceding or the 
following age. His paradoxical opinions on several points of 
philosophy and theology, met with lively opposition. Arnaud 
disputed his views on the nature of grace ; Regis, those on 
motion ; and Laing, those on divine love. His philosophy is 
now exploded, and his works little read ; though they are re- 
ferred to as models of style in this department of authorship.. 



XVII.—HISTORY AND MEMOIRS. 

BOSSUET, MEZERAY, ST. REAL, FLEURY, ROLLIN, DE RETZ, ST. SIMON, COUNT 

HAMILTON. 

History attained no very high degree of excellence during 
this period. We have already alluded to the Discours sur 
V Histoire Universelle of Bossuet, which is not so much a 
history as a religious commentary on the designs of the 
Supreme Being respecting the world — a sermon, with general 
history for the text. At a somewhat earlier date, Mezeray 
(1610-1683) was led from the publication of political pamph- 
lets to those studies which suggested the compilation of a his- 
tory of France. His work, which brings the history down to 
the reign of Louis XIII., appeared in three folio volumes be- 
tween 1643 and 1651, and obtained for him a high reputation ] 
the style is clear, facile, and nervous, and the spirit which per- 
vades it bold and independent ; but the author either had not 
access to authentic records, or did not carefully consult them, 
and hence the facts are not to be depended upon. In like 
manner, St. Real's Histoire de la Conjuration des E^pagnoU 
contre Venise, is little else than a historical romance. 



272 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

The epithet of ^^ judicious'' has become inseparably connected 
with the name of the Abbe Fleury (1640-1723), tutor under 
Fenelon to the grandchildren of Louis XIV. His ecclesiastical 
history, reaching from the first establishment of Christianity to 
the year 1414, was pronounced by Voltaire the best work of the 
kind that had ever appeared. 

An author of similar stamp was the good Rollin (1661- 
1741), who being forced to quit the professor's chair from a 
suspicion of being infected with Jansenism, devoted his de- 
clining years to the composition of works, chiefly historical, 
for the instruction of young people. His Ancient History is 
familiar in our language, and was long the first, if not the only 
book on the subject that was put into the hands of English 
youth. In point of date, it scarcely belongs to the age under 
review ; but it does completely in style and spirit, being a work 
of the same class as Bossuet's universal and Fleury' s ecclesias- 
tical history — more remarkable for the excellence of its inten- 
tions, than for the display of strictly historical talent. 

The truth is, that the writers of this period having no know- 
ledge of political science, viewed history chiefly as a vehicle 
for fine composition, and knew no higher ambition than that 
of imitating the ancients, to which some, as in the examples 
adduced, added the desire to derive from it illustrations of 
moral and religious truth. They may, therefore, be said to 
have marked rather than filled a void in French literature. 

The writers of Memoirs were more happy. At an earlier 
period — that is, in the sixteenth century — Brantome, a 
gentleman attached to the suite of Charles IX. and Henry III., 
having met with all the great people of his day in France, and 
also many of those in other countries, employed his declining 
years in describing the men and manners he had observed. 
His Memoires are classified as Vies des Ilommes Illvstres et 



SULLY — CARDINAL DE RETZ. 273 

Grands Capitaines Frangais ; des Grands Capitaines Etran^ 
gers ; des Dames lllustres ; des Dames Galantes ; and Bot- 
withstanding some anecdotes wliicli are considered apocryphal, 
they are admitted to embody but too faithful a representation 
of that singular mixture of elegance and grossness, of super- 
stition and impiety, of chivalrous feelings and licentious 
morals, which characterized the sixteenth century. 

Then there had been the Duke of Sully, the skilful 
financier of Henry IV., in the earlier half of the seventeenth 
century. He left valuable memoirs of the stirring events of 
his day, but in a somewhat singular form, as under the suppo- 
sition that his secretaries were relating to him the history of 
his own life. 

In the period now under review, appears the Cardinal de 
Retz (1614-1679), who took so active a part in the agitations 
of the Fronde, and left Memoiresj which were published for 
the first time in 1717. They embody the enlarged views of 
the true historian, as well as the details of the narrator, and 
breathe the impetuous spirit of a man whose native element is 
civil commotion, and who looks on the chieftainship of a party 
as worthy to engage the best powers both of his head and 
heart. 

Before introducing a specimen of his work, it is proper to 
say something about its style. The classical language of 
French literature had been formed by the professional authors, 
who had confined it within somewhat narrow bounds, and 
guarded its purity with the most jealous care. But parallel to 
the limpid stream which flowed through their works, there 
rolled another, which arose from a difi'erent source — rough and 
headlong, it is true, but abundant and powerful. It was the 
language of those practical people — men of camps and courts 
— who were too much out of the sphere of literary interests 



274 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

to make a conscience of classical forms of speecli : men who 
lived near enough the masses to borrow what was picturesque 
in their phraseology ; distant enough not to adopt what was 
vulgar; and high enough to affect more or less independence 
of the ipse dixit of literary legislators. Many of these aris- 
tocratic writers availed themselves of such a position only to 
revel in grotesque inaccuracies, and ^^ to defy the grammar to 
which even kings yielded subjection.'^ In glancing over their 
works, we easily detect this feudal pride assuming the privi- 
lege of framing its own locutions, and even orthography, and 
appearing to glory in slovenliness and barbarism. But when 
this somewhat irregular style is employed by men of real 
talent, as the Cardinal de Retz and the Due de St. Simon, it 
appears as a superior dialect, and exhibits phases of the lan- 
guage no less distinct than those furnished by a different era. 

In introducing, therefore, some passages from Cardinal de 
Retz, we apprise the reader that his is not classical French ; 
that it abounds with negligences and irregularities which 
would have shocked the litterateurs of the day; but it affords 
a fine specimen of this bold and independent mode of taking 
the shortest way to the end in view ; employing whatever locu- 
tions are most expressive, or most at hand, and trampling on 
conventionalities whenever they were found inconvenient. 

The following graphic sketches of Richelieu and Mazarin 
are from his account of the war of the Fronde. 

Le cardinal de Richelieu avait de la naissance. Sa jeunesse jeta 
des etincelles de son merite. II se distingiia en Sorbonne ; on remar- 
qua de fort bonne heure qu'il avait de la force et de la vivacite dans 
I'esprit. II prenait d'ordinaire tr^s-bien son parti. II ^tait homme 
de parole oil un grand interet ne Tobligeait pas au contraire ; et en 
cela il n'oubliait rien pour sauver les apparences de la bonne foi. II 
n'(jtait pas liberal, mais il donnait plus qu'il ne promettait, et il assai- 
Bonnait admirablement ses bienfaits. II aimait la gloire beaucoup 
plus que la morale ne le permet ; mais il faut avouer qu'il n'abusait 
qu'a proportion do son m6rite de la dispense qu'il avait prise sur le 



CARDINAL DE RETZ. 275 

point de I'exces de son ambition. II n'avait ni I'esprit ni le coeur au- 
dessus des perils ; il n'avait ni I'un ni Fautre au-dessous ; et Ton pent 
dire qu'il en prevint davantage par sa sagacite qu'il n'en snrmonta 
par sa fermete. II etait bon ami ; il eut meme souhaite d'etre aime 
du public ; mais quoiqu^il eut la civilite, I'exterieur et d'autres parties 
propres a cet effet, il n'en eut jamais je ne sais quo! qui est encore en 
cette matiere plus requis qu'en toute autres. II an^antissait par son 
pouvoir et par son faste royal la majeste personnelle du roi ; mais il 
remplit avec tant de dignite les fonctions de la rojaute, qu'il fall ait 
n'etre pas du vulgaire pour ne pas confondre le bien et le mal de ce 
fait. II distinguait plus judicieusement qu'homme du monde entre le 
mal et le pis, entre le bien et le mieux ; ce qui est une grande qualite 
a un ministre. II s'impatientait trop facilement dans les petites 
choses qui etaient les prealables des grandes ; mais ce defaut, qui 
vient de la sublimite de I'esprit, est toujours joint gt des lumieres qui 
le suppleent. II avait assez de religion pour ce monde ; il allait au 
bien, ou par inclination, ou par bon sens, toutes les fois que son in- 
teret ne le portait point au mal, qu^il connaissait parfaitement quand 
il le faisait. II ne considerait Tetat que pour sa vie ; mais jamais 
ministre n'a eu plus d'application a faire croire qu'il en menageait 
Favenir. Enfin il faut confesser que tons ses vices out ete de ceux 
qui ne peuvent avoir pour instruments que de grandes vertus. 

•X- -x- 4«- ^ 

Le cardinal Mazarin etait d'un caractbre tout contraire. Sa nais- 
sance etait basse, et son enfance honteuse. Au sortir du Colis^e il 
apprit a piper, ce qui lui attira des coups de baton d'un orfevre de 
Rome, appele Moretto. II fut capitaine d'infanterie en Valteline ; et 
Bagni, qui ^tait son general, m'a dit qu'il ne passa dans sa guerre, 
qui ne fut que de trois mois, que pour un escroc. II eut la nonciature 
extraordinaire en France par la faveur du cardinal Antoine Bar- 
berini, qui ne s'acquerait pas dans ce temps-la par de bons raoyens. 
II plut a Cbavigny par les contes libertins d'ltalie, et par Cbavigny a 
Richelieu, qui le fit cardinal, par le meme esprit, a ce qu'an a cru, 
qui obligca Auguste a laisser a Tibere la succession de I'empire. La 
pourpre ne I'empeelia pas de demeurer valet sous Richelieu. La reine 
I'ayant choisi, faute d'autre, ce qui est vrai, quoi qu'on en dise, il 
parut d'abord I'original de Trivelino principe. La fortune I'ayant ebloui 
et tons les autres, il s'^rigea et on I'erigea en Richelieu ; mais il n'en 
eut que I'impudence de I'imitation. II se fit de la honte de tout ce 
dont I'autre s'etait fait de I'honneur. II se moqua de la religion. II 



276 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

promit tout parce qu'il ne voulut rien tenir. II ne fut ni doux ni 
cruel, parce qu'il ne se souvenait ni des bienfaits, ni des injures. II 
s'aimait trop, ce qui est le naturel des ames laches ; il se craignait 
trop peu, ce qui est le caract^re de ceux qui n'ont pas le soin de leur 
reputation. II prevoyait assez bien le mal, parce qu'il avait souvent 
peur, mais il n'y remediait pas a proportion, parce qu'il n'avait pas 
tant de prudence que de peur. II avait de I'esprit, de I'insinuation, 
de I'enjouement, des manieres; mais le vilain coeur paraissait toujours 
au travers, et au point que ces qualites eurent dans I'adversite tout 
Fair du ridicule, et ne perdirent pas dans la prosperity celui de la 
fourberie. II porta le filoutage dans le ministere, ce qui n'est arrive 
qu'a lui, et le filoutage faisait que le ministere, meme heureux et 
absolu, ne lui seyait pas bien, et que le m^pris s'y glissa, qui est la 
maladie la plus dangereuse d'un etat, et dont la contagion se repand 
le plus aisement et le plus promptement du chef dans les membres. 
■X- ^ ^ ^ 

Comme il marchait sur les pas du cardinal de Richelieu, qui avait 
acheve de detruire toutes les anciennes maximes de I'etat, il suivait 
son chemin, qui etait de tons cotes borde de precipices, que le cardi- 
nal de Richelieu n'avait pas ignores : mais il ne se servait pas des 
appuis par lesquels le cardinal de Richelieu avait assure sa marche. 
J'expliquerai ce peu de paroles, qui comprend beaucoup de choses, par 
un exemple. Le cardinal de Richelieu avait affecte d'abaisser les corps, 
mais il n'avait pas oublie de manager les particuliers. Cette idee 
suffit pour vous faire concevoir tout le reste. 

The Due DE St. Simon was another of those who made no 
pretensions to classical writing, and would have disdained to 
be '^ an academic subject/^ as he himself expressed it. He 
valued himself on being one of the last of the great lords of 
France, but did not dream of being esteemed one of the 
greatest writers of the seventeenth century. Such, however, 
he was in his own way. However far his style may be from 
classical, it is that of a man of genius. If the form in which 
he begins a sentence does not suit the thought he would bring 
out, he forces the rule, or bends or extends it, but scorns to 
go back; makes his beginning nolens-volens agree with the 
end ; and ^^ hence,'' say French critics, ^^ some errors more or 



ST. SIMON. 277 

less grating to the ear, but hence also some happy discoveries 
and veritable graces of style/^ St. Simon himself felt that 
he ought to have composed more correctly ; but this would 
have involved rewriting the whole — a task to which he was 
unequal, he said, and which he feared might prove a thankless 
one after all. 

This improvisatore talent the Duke de St. Simon shared in 
common with another remarkable writer of the same period — 
Madame de Sevigne; though the latter, from greater cultiva- 
tion and less impetuosity, was more correct with the same 
rapidity. Both avowed their incorrigibility. ^^I never had 
the courage to read over my letters,^' said Madame de Sevigne, 
" for I never altered them except for the worse.'' And so St. 
Simon, in his conclusion : ^^ I have never been able to cure 
myself of writing rapidly." Great vivacity seems scarcely 
compatible with the labor of accuracy; and writers of this 
sort, in trying to examine their thoughts too closely, either dis- 
sipate them altogether, or lose confidence in themselves. In 
seeking the perfection of deep thinkers, they lose those impro- 
visatore beauties which Moliere so poetically expresses as con- 
stituting the superiority of fresco over oil painting : — 

La paresse de rhuile, allant avec lenteur, 

Du plus tardif genie attend la pesanteur ; * * « 

Et sur cette peinture on peut, pour faire mieux, 

Revenir, quand on veut, avec de nouveaux yeux. 

Mais la fresque est pressante, et veut, sans complaisance, 

Qu'un peintre s'accommode a son impatience. 

Avec elle il n'est point de retour a tenter, 

Et tout, au premier coup, se doit executer. 

All the styles of the seventeenth century are found in St. 
Simon. Here is the long period of Descartes loaded with inci- 
dents, but made clear by repetition ; the boldness and emphasis 
of Bossuet; the high coloring of Bruyere; and the easy 
familiar gossip of Madame de Sevigne. His language has 
24 



278 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

been compared to a torrent^ wWcli appears somewhat encum- 
bered by the debris which it carries, yet makes its way with 
no less rapidity. It seems to pertain more to the reign of 
Lonis XIII., than to the middle of the eighteenth century, 
which is nearly its date. 

But if the language of this author is that of the seven- 
teenth century, with the shades we have marked, his spirit is 
widely different. When St. Simon appeared at court, the 
splendors of the reign of Louis XIV. were waning ; the great 
generals and the great ministers had passed away ; the king 
remained still majestic in himself, but without his cortege of 
superior men ; now surrounded by upstarts chosen by caprice, 
or thrown upon him by chance, flattering him in his passion 
for absolute rule, and in the greatest fault of his life — his mar- 
riage with Madame de Maintenon. St. Simon received im- 
pressions of the decline no less strongly than the men of the 
first half of this reign had received those of the greatness of 
the monarchy. He was in political opinion a reformer ; and 
in this respect resembled Fenelon, from whom he differs so 
much in style. Like the venerable ecclesiastic, too, he was 
warmly attached to the Duke of Burgundy, and conceived 
high hopes of the advantages likely to accrue to France when 
this prince should hold the reins of government. 

Our extract is from his portrait of this prince : — 

Ce prince, heritier n^cessaire, puis presomptif de la couronne, 
naquit terrible, et sa premiere jeunesse fit trembler; dur et colore 
jusqu'aux derniers emportements, et jusque centre les choses inani- 
mees ; imp^tueux avec fureur ; incapable de souffrir la moindre 
resistance, meme des heures et des ^l^ments, sans entrer dans des 
fougues a faire craindre que tout ne se rompit dans son corps; 
opiniatre a I'exc^s; passion^ pour toute esp^ce de volupt^ ; il aimait 
le vin, la bonne chere, la chasse avec fureur, la musique avec une 
Borte de ravissement, et le jeu encore, oti il ne pouvait supporter 
d'etre vaincu et oil le danger avec lui etait extreme ; enfin, livr^ a 
toutes les passions et transport^ de tons les plaisirs ; souvent farouche. 



ST. SIMON— COUNT HAMILTON. 279 

naiurellement port^ a la cruaut^ ; barbare en railleries et h produire 
les ridicules avec une justesse qui assommait. De la liauteur des 
cieux il ne regardait les hommes que comme des atomes avec qui il 
n'avait aucune ressemblance quels qu'ils fussent. A peine MM. ses 
freres lui paraissaient-ils intermediaires entre lui et le genre humain, 
quoiqu'on eut toujours affects de les Clever tons trois ensemble dans 
une egalite parfaite. L'esprit, la penetration brillaient en lui de 
toutes parts. Jusque dans ses furies, ses reponses etonnaient; ses 
raisonnements tendaient toujours au juste et au profond, meme dans 
ses emportements. II se jouait des connaissances les plus abstraites. 
L'etendue et la vivacite de son esprit ^taient prodigieuses, et I'em- 
pechaient de s'appliquer a une seule chose a la fois, jusqu'^ Ten rendre 
incapable. La necessite de le laisser dessiner en etudiant, a quoi il 
avait beaucoup de gout et d'adresse, et sans quoi son etude etait in- 
fructueuse, a peut-etre beaucoup nui a sa taille. 

* « -» * 

Place we now in contrast witli these thorouglily serious men, 
the frivolous Count Hamilton (1646-1720), narrating the 
rough adventures of his brother-in-law, the Chevalier de Gra- 
mont, and the gallantries of Charles II, of England. This 
Hamilton, a scion of the noble family of the same name in 
Scotland, and attached to the cause of the royal Stuarts, spent 
his childhood in France, where his father was sharing the exile 
of Charles II. He returned, however, to England with this 
monarch at the Restoration (1660), and it was about two years 
afterwards that the Chevalier de Gramont went to London as an 
exile from the court of France, and formed an attachment to Miss 
Hamilton, whom he afterward married.'^ Hamilton filled some 
offices in Ireland under James II., accompanied him to France 

* This was believed to be the original of Moliere's comedy of Le Jlariage 
Force. Gramont was leaving the court of England without bringing to a 
consummation the matrimony he had pledged with Miss Hamilton. The 
young lady's brothers pursued him, and overtaking him near Dover, called 
out, '^ Count Gramont, have you forgotten nothing in London ?'' " Oh, I beg 
your pardon,'* said the count, "I forgot to marry your sister!" Whereupon 
he returned with them, and the nuptials took place. This anecdote does 
not appear in the JJemoires. 



280 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

on his abdication, and became one of the ornaments of his little 
court at St. Germain. It was here that he amused himself 
with writing his recollections of the court of Charles II., to 
which it is believed he has added some inventions of his own. 
Though under the title of the Memoires du Comte de Gramont^ 
it embraces a number of scandalous adventures, by no means 
connected with the hero. " Of all frivolous books," says La 
Harpe, ^^ this is the most pleasing and the most ingenious ; it 
is the work of a lightsome spirit, accustomed, in the corruption 
of court-life, to recognise no vice but the ridiculous ; to cover 
the most depraved morals with an elegant gloss ; and relate all 
in a mirthful and pleasant tone. The art of narrating little 
things, so as to make them appear of consequence, is here 
found in perfection.^' 



XVIIL—KOMANCE AND LETTER-WRITING. 

MADAME DE LA FAYETTE — FENELON — SEVIGNE — MAINTENON. 

The growth of kingly power, the external order which it 
established, and the civilization which followed in its train, 
restrained the development of public life, and increased the 
interest of social relations. From this new state of things, 
combined with a remaining taste for heroic adventure, arose a 
modified kind of romance, in which elevated sentiments re- 
placed the impossible achievements we have adverted to as 
characteristic of mediaeval fiction, and the military exploits 
of Madame de Scudery's tales. Madame de la Fayette 
introduced that kind of romance, in which the absorbing 
interest is that of conflicting passion, and the events of 
the external history are but the occasions for developing the 
inward life of thought and feeling. Hers, too, was the first 



PENELON. 281 

attempt at depicting manners as they really were, and relating 
natural events with gracefulness, instead of inventing such as 
never had or could have an existence. Like her predecessor, 
she published her first romance under the name of a male 
friend, and ventured not to appear as an author till her work 
had been favorably received. The experiment was completely 
successful, and this more natural style of novel-writing became 
highly popular. When we say popular, we mean only, of course, 
that it was relished in the high-born circles for which novels 
were then written; for Madame de la Fayette would have 
shrunk with horror from the idea of one of her pages being 
turned over by a citizen's thumb. The same aristocratic feel- 
ing ascended the pulpit with the clergy, the higher places in 
the church being filled with scions of noble families. 

We are thus led to mention the illustrious Fenelon,* one 
of the few authors of this age who pertained exclusively to no 
one class. He appeared as a divine in his Sermons ou (Euvres 
Spirituelles, and Maximes des Saints ; as a rhetorician in Dia- 
logues sur V Eloquence; as a moralist in L^ Education des FiUes; 
as a politician in Examen de la Conscience d^un Roi ; and it 
may be said that all these characters are combined in Tele- 
maque, which has procured for him a widely spread fame, and 
which obliges us therefore to place him^ despite his well-main- 
tained piety, among the romancers. 

He was the son of an ancient and noble family, and born at 
the chateau of Fenelon in Perigord, in the year 1651. Edu- 
cated in retirement, under the eye of a virtuous father, and 
amidst models of ancient Greece, his naturally fine taste had 
the most favorable opportunity for development. Being de- 
signed for the church, and summoned to Paris by his uncle, 
the Marquis of Fenelon, in order to prosecute his theological 



* See Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
24* 



282 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

studies, lie underwent, at fifteen years of age, a similar trial to 
tliat of Bossuet in extempore preaching, thougli before a less 
distinquished auditory than that at the Hotel de Eambouillet. 
The eclat of premature fame, which had gathered round him 
before his nineteenth year, alarmed the marquis, who, to save 
his protege from the seductions to which he might be exposed, 
placed him in the Seminary of St. Sulpice, where he spent 
five years in religious silence and obedience, in study and 
meditation. Here he took holy orders; and in the fervor of 
his religious zeal, formed the design of consecrating his life to 
foreign missions, but was afterwards induced to embrace one 
which was deemed no less useful — that of the instruction of 
the new converts from Protestantism. His labors in this sphere 
prepared him for writing his treatise De V Education des Filles 
for the Duchess of Beauvilliers, the pious mother of a nume- 
rous family. In this work he insists on the importance of 
the female character, and the urgent reasons there are for 
cultivating female understanding. ^^ Women,'' he says, ^^were 
designed, by their native elegance and gentleness, to render 
domestic life endeared to man ; to render virtue attractive to 
children ; to difiiise order and grace around them, and impart 
to society its highest polish. No attainment can be too ele- 
vated for beings designed to accomplish purposes at once so 
useful and salutary, and every means should be used to invigo- 
rate their native elegance by principle and culture.'' 

About this time, Fenelon formed an intimate acquaintance 
with Bossuet, whom he regarded with great veneration, and 
whose steps in religious controversy he endeavored to follow, 
though with greater moderation. The talent which he dis- 
played in this respect induced Louis XIV., at the recom- 
mendation of Bossuet, to appoint him to a new mission for the 
conversion of Protestants in Poitou. Fenelon accepted the 
charge, but on condition that he should have no soldiery as his 
auxiliaries; and, moreover, that his colleagues should be men 



FENELON. 283 

of his own selection — men wlio would gain converts only by 
persuasion and entreaty. The importance which was attached 
to such missions, and the success which attended Fenelon's 
labors, brought him into considerable notice, and now a new 
sphere was opened for his talents. The grandson of Louis 
XIV. was emerging from childhood, and the high reputation 
of Fenelon, seconded by the interest of Madame de Mainte- 
non, obtained for him the important situation of preceptor to 
the young prince, to whom M. de Beauvilliers was guardian. 
The two friends entered with enthusiasm on the task allotted 
to them : they saw eye to eye, and history scarcely records 
such another instance of harmonious effort in a similar cause. 
They looked upon the happiness of France as bound up in the 
education of its future sovereign, and believed that all this was 
now in their hands ; their beau-ideal of a virtuous monarch 
and a happy people should now be realized. Alas for human 
hopes ! 

Fenelon studied his pupil's peculiar disposition, and adapted 
himself to it : he conquered his pride by gentleness, and his 
vehemence by silence : excited his desire for knowledge by 
conversation, and satisfied it by information conveyed in the 
most pleasing manner. We owe his fables, many of his dia- 
logues, and his great work, TiUmaqiie^ to the plan he had laid 
for forming the mind and character of this young prince, as 
the expectant sovereign of France. 

Five years passed thus without the amiable preceptor either 
asking or receiving any distinguishing mark of the royal 
favor. The king now bestowed on him the archbishopric 
of Cambray, for which he offered thanks; but at the same 
time he represented to his majesty, that he could not regard 
that gift as a reward, whose operation must be to separate him 
from his pupil ; whereupon the king gave him leave to reside 
at court three months in the year, which was the utmost ab- 
senteeism that the canons of the church allowed. 



284 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

It was shortly after this arrangement that Fenelon became 
involved in controversy about the doctrines of Madame Guyon, 
to which we have referred in our notice of Bossuet, and that 
he was entirely banished to Cambray. His modest submission 
and truly apostolic virtues would probably have procured his 
restoration ; but an unforeseen event occurred more than ever 
to irritate against him the mind of Louis. The TeUmaque, 
which he had composed, as it is believed, with the intention 
of its becoming a manual for the young prince on his entrance 
upon manhood, was printed by a bookseller of Paris, through 
the unfaithfulness of the man who had been directed to 
transcribe the manuscript. Before it was ready for publica- 
tion, it was seized and interdicted ; but it found its way into 
Holland, went through numerous editions, and was translated 
into every language of Europe. Louis XIV., who had never 
greatly liked Fenelon, and had long designated him as un hel 
esprit chimerique, considered the spirit of the book as a re- 
proach to the spirit of his reign ; while the courtiers increased 
his anger by discovering particular applications of the per- 
sonages in the tale. Meanwhile Fenelon devoted himself with 
zealous assiduity to the care of his diocese. His extensive 
benevolence, his unbounded sympathy, his calm sense of 
justice, and his easy accessibility to the poor as well as the 
rich, won the hearts of all ; and long after his death, there 
were old men who would point, with tears in their eyes, to the 
wooden chair in the cottage, which, in their boyhood, they had 
seen occupied by the venerable archbishop. One man of high 
birth, who had been introduced into his palace, ostensibly as 
high vicar, but really as a spy, was so touched by the blame- 
less life he witnessed, that he threw himself at Fenelon' s feet, 
confessed all, and then, unable to meet his eye, withdrew in 
shame, and lived ever after in exile and obscurity. 

The Duke of Burgundy had been forbidden to hold any 
intercourse with his beloved preceptor ; but it would seem that 



FENELON. 285 

he found means of breaking througli the restriction, and of 
assuring him of his continued friendship, and his desire to be 
under his instruction. lu his reply, Fenelon says : ^^ In the 
name of God, let prayer nourish your soul, as food nourishes 
your body. Do not make long prayers ; let them spring from 
the heart, rather than from the understanding; little from 
reasoning, much from simple affection ; few ideas in consecu- 
tive order, but many acts of faith and love. . . . My greatest 
sorrow has been not to see you ', but I carry you continually 
before God into a presence more intimate than that of the 
senses. I would give a thousand lives, like a drop of water, 
to see you such as God would have you to be.^' 

During the war of the Spanish Succession, Fenelon, living 
on a frontier exposed to the incursions of the enemy, devoted 
himself to alleviating the sufferings of the people. In one of 
his journeys, he met a peasant in deep affliction : the enemy 
had driven away his cow, on which his family was dependent 
for support, and his life was in danger if he went to seek it. 
On hearing this, the archbishop set off in pursuit, found the 
cow, and drove it home himself to the peasant's cottage. The 
enemy — that is, the English, Germans, and Dutch — were as 
eager to display their veneration for him as the officers of the 
French army pointedly avoided him, out of compliment to 
their wrathful sovereign. They sent detachments to guard his 
fields, and to escort his harvest into the city ; but he refused 
military protection for his own person, and, with no other 
attendants than a few ecclesiastics, he traversed regions de- 
vastated by war, carrying peace and succor in his pastoral 
visits. 

When the Duke of Burgundy headed the army in Flanders 
in 1702, and again in 1708, he renewed his personal inter- 
course with the archbishop, and during the interval they cor- 
responded with freedom. Then, when the dauphin, the father 
of the Duke of Burgundy, died, the supple nobles began to 



286 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

pay court to Fenelon, concluding that lie would be all-powerful 
in tlie event of his pupil's accession to the throne. But Fene- 
lon heeded their attentions as little as he had done their 
neglect. Their expectations were not to be realized; the 
young dauphin died in 1712, and in the following year the 
Duke of Beauvilliers. Fenelon received the intelligence with 
mingled grief and resignation ; declaring, that though all his 
ties were broken, and that nothing hereafter would attach him 
to earth, yet he would not move a finger to recall the prince to 
life against the will of God. After this event the king's 
heart appeared to be softened ; the sting of envy was in part, 
at least, removed, when there was no fear of the impersonation 
in a successor of the precepts of Fenelon. After burning with 
his own hands all the papers and letters of his which were 
found among the efi'ects of the Duke of Burgundy, he was 
about to recall the venerable ecclesiastic to court, when death 
removed him from witnessing the late repentance of the 
monarch (1715 A. D.) Louis outlived him but a few months. 
Two years after the death of Fenelon, his heirs published 
the TeUmaque^ complete in two volumes. Our quotation is 
from one of its most admired passages. 

LES CHAMPS £lYS1^:ES. 

C'est dans ce lieu qu'habitaient tous les bons rois qui avaient jus- 
qu'alors gouverne sagemeDt les hommes ; ils etaient separes du reste 
des justes. Comme les mechants princes souffraient dans le Tartare 
des supplices infiniment plus rigoureux que les autres coupables d'une 
condition privee, aussi les bons rois jouissaient dans les Champs Ely- 
sees d'un bonheur infiniment plus grand que celui du reste des hommes 
qui avaient aime la vertu sur la terre. 

Tdleraaque s'avan9a vers ces rois, qui dtaient dans des bocages odori- 
ferants, sur des gazons toujours renaissants et fleuris : mille petits 
ruisseaux d'une onde pure arrosaient ces beaux lieux, et y faisaient 
sentir une delicieuse fraicheur : un nombre infini d'oiseaux faisaient 
resonner ces bocages de leurs doux chants. On voyait tout ensemble 
les fleurs du printemps qui naissaient sous les pas, avec les plus riches 



FENELON. 287 

fruits de Tautomne qui pendaient des arbres. La jamais on ne res- 
sentit les ardeurs de la furieuse canicule : la jamais les noirs aquilons 
n'oserent souffler, ni faire sentir les rigueurs de I'Liver. Ni la guerre 
alt^ree de sang, ni la cruelle envie qui mord d'une dent venimeuse, et 
qui porte des viperes entortillees dans son sein et autour de ses bras, 
ni les jalousies, ni les defiances, ni la crainte, ni les vains desirs, 
n'approchent jamais de cet heureux sejour de la paix. Le jour n'y 
finit point ; et la nuit, avec ses sombres voiles, y est inconnue ; une 
lumiere pure et douce se repand autour des corps de ces hommes 
justes, et les environne de ses rayons comme d'un vetement. Cette 
lumiere n'est point semblable a la lumiere sombre qui eclaire les 
yeux des miserables mortels, et qui n'est que tenebres ; c'est plutot 
une gloire celeste qu'une lumiere : elle penetre plus subtilement les 
corps les plus epais que les rayons du soleil ne penetrent le plus pur 
cristal : elle n'eblouit jamais ; au contraire, elle fortifie les yeux et 
porte dans le fond de I'arae je ne sais quelle serenite : c'est d'elle seule 
que les hommes bienheureux sont nourris ; elle sort d'eux et elle y 
entre ; elle les penetre et s'incorpore a eux comme les aliments s'in- 
corporent a nous. lis la voient, ils la sentent, ils la respirent ; elle 
fait naitre en eux une source intarissable de paix et de joie : ils sont 
plonges dans cet abime de delices comme les poissons dans la mer ; ils 
ne veulent plus rien ; ils ont tout sans rien avoir, car ce gout de lumiere 
pure apaise la faim de leur coeur ; tons leurs desirs sont rassasies, et leur 
plenitude les eleve au-dessus de tout ce que les hommes vides et affames 
cherchent sur la terre : toutes les delices qui les environnent ne leur 
Bont rien, parce que le comble de leur felicite, qui vient du dedans, ne 
leur laisse aucun sentiment pour tout ce qu'ils voient de delicieux au 
dehors ; ils sont tels que les dieux, qui, rassasies de nectar et d'am- 
broisie, ne daigneraient pas se nourrir des viandes grossieres qu'on 
leur presenterait a la table la plus exquise des hommes mortels. Tons 
les maux s'enfuient loin de ces lieux tranquilles : la mort, la maladie, 
la pauvret^, la douleur, les regrets, les remords, les craintes, les 
esperances meme, qui coutent souvent autant de peines que les 
craintes, les divisions, les degoiits, les depits, ne peuvent y avoir 
aucune entree. 

After a further description of tlie moral beauties of this 
abode, in harmony with the external, Telemachus is repre- 
sented as searchiDg in vain for his father, and being accosted 



288 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

by an old man^ wlio reveals himself as the grandfather of 
Ulysses, and announces that the object of his search is still 
alive. The old man concludes with this solemn reflection and 
admonition : 

Ainsi les hommes passent comme les fleurs qui s'epanouissent le 
matin, et qui le soir sont fletries et foulees aux pieds. Les genera- 
tions des hommes s'ecoulent comme les ondes d'un fleuve rapide ; 
rien ne peut arreter le temps, qui entraine apres lui tout ce qui 
parait le plus immobile. Toi-meme, 6 mon fils! mon cher fils! toi- 
meme, qui jouis maintenant d'une jeunesse si vive et si feconde en 
plaisirs, souviens-toi que ce bel age n'est qu'une fleur qui sera pres- 
que aussitot secliee qu'eclose; tu te verras change insensiblement : 
les graces riantes, les doux plaisirs qui t'accompagnent, la force, la 
sante, la joie, s'evanouiront comme un beau songe ; il ne t'en restera 
qu'un triste souvenir : la vieillesse languissante et ennemie des 
plaisirs viendra rider ton visage, courber ton corps, affaiblir tes mem- 
bres, faire tarir dans ton coeur la source de la joie, te degouter du 
present, te faire craindre I'avenir, te rendre insensible a tout, except6 
a la douleur. 

Ce temps te parait eloign^ : lielas! tu te trompes, mon fils; il se 
hate ; le voila qui arrive : ce qui vient avec tant de rapidite n'est pas 
loin de toi ; et 16 present qui s'enfuit est deja bien loin, puisqu'il 
s'aneantit dans le moment que nous parlous, et ne peut plus se rap- 
procher. Ne compte done jamais, mon fils, sur le present ; mais 
soutiens-toi dans le sentier rude et apre de la vertu par la vue de 
I'avenir. Prepare-toi, par des mceurs pures et par I'amour de la jus- 
tice, une place dans I'heureux sejour de la paix. 

TiUmaque was, in its day, considered a manual for kings, 
and it became a standard school-book on account of the ele- 
gance of its style, the purity of its morality, and the classic 
tastes it was likely to foster in the youthful mind. Forty or 
fifty years ago, every boy that learned French in this country 
had it put into his hand as his first reading-book. But the 
revolutions of political and religious opinion have cast it into 
the shade. It is now believed that the welfare of a nation is 
not to be hoped from a wise and virtuous sovereign managing 



MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 289 

an ignorant people as he would a family of helpless children, 
but from a virtuous and well-instructed people regulating and 
controlling the operations of the government under which 
they live. 

Madame de Sevigne* made no pretensions to authorship. 
Her letters were written without the slightest idea that they 
would ever be read except by those to whom they were ad- 
dressed ; but they have immortalized their gifted author^ and 
have been pronounced worthy to occupy an eminent place 
among the classics of French literature. 

Madame de Sevigne was the daughter of the Baron Chantel, 
a noble of the old feudal times, who fell, it is said, by the hand 
of Cromwell himself, while defending the Isle of Re (Rlie) 
against the English in 1628, The little Marie was then only 
a year and a half old ; and her mother also dying whilo she 
was yet a child, her education devolved on her maternal uncle, 
the Abbe de Coulanges, for whom she ever entertained a truly 
filial affection. We know little of her youthful life, but that 
her earliest reading was in the interminable romances of Ma- 
dame de Scudery ; that she pursued more serious studies under 
Menage and Chapelle ; that she was early introduced to court ; 
and that she was married at eighteen to Henry, Marquis of 
Sevigne, a gay, extravagant, and dissipated man, of an ancient 
family in Brittany. Being related to the celebrated Cardinal 
de BetZj the marquis joined the party of the Fronde in the 
civil war; madame also became a zealous Frondeuse, and in 
all her after-life we find traces of the intimacies which were 
contracted during this stormy period. Her husband was 
killed in a duel by the Chevalier d'Albret — it is not known 
on what provocation; and Madame de Sevigne was left a 
widow at four-and-twenty years of age, with a son and daugh- 



■* See Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia. 
25 



290 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

ter, who now engrossed all her anxieties. Deeming it neces- 
sary for their advancement that she should cultivate the 
friendship of people in power, and determined, perhaps, still 
more by her own natural tastes, she continued to live closely 
surrounded by the court circle of Louis XIV. — a demoralized 
atmosphere enough, yet no evil breath ever tainted her fair 
fame. Her cousin, Bussy Kabutin, who dealt abundantly in 
scandal, rallied her as the only woman in France that could 
induce her admirers to be satisfied with friendship. Among 
these was the unfortunate financier Fouquet, whose hand she 
had refused, but whose fall excited her deepest sympathy. 
During his trial, Madame de Sevigne reported its progress in 
letters to M. de Pomponne, who afterwards became minister. 
The interest and terror which was excited about him appears 
from the fact, that she masked herself when she went to see 
him return from the court to the prison of the Bastille, as she 
herself relates. 

II faut que je vous conte ce que j'ai fait. Imaginez vous que des 
dames m'ont propose d'aller dans une maison qui regarde droit dans 
I'arsenal pour voir revenir notre pauvre ami. J'etais masquee; je 
I'ai vu venir d'assez loin. M. d'Artagnan etoit aupres de lui ; cin- 
quante mousquetaires a trente a quarante pas derniere. II paroissoit 
assez reveur. Pour moi, quand je I'ai aper9u, les jambes m'ont 
tremble, et le coeur m'a battu si fort, que je ne pouvois plus. En 
s'approchant de nous pour entrer dans son trou M. d'Artagnan I'a 
pousse, et lui a fait remarquer que nous etions la. II nous a done 
Baluees, et pris cette mine riante que vous lui connoissez. Je ne crc/ii- 
pas qu'il m'a reconnue, mais je vous avoue que j'ai et6 etrangement 
sais^e quand je I'ai vu entrer dans cette petite porte. Si vous saviez 
combien on est malheureux quand on a le coeur fait comme je I'ai, je 
Fuis assuree que vous auriez pitie de moi ; mais je pense que vous n'en 
etes pas quitte a meilleur raarche de la maniere dont je vous connois. 
J'ai 6te voir votre cb^re voisine, je vous plains autant de ne I'avoir 
plus, que nous nous trouvons heureux de I'avoir. Nous avons bien 
parl6 de notre cher ami: elle a vu Sappho (Mademoiselle de Scud^ry) 
qui lui a redonne du courage. Pour moi, j'irai demain le reprendre 



MADAME DE 6EVIGNE. 291 

cliez elle, car de temps en temps, je sens que j'ai besoin de r^confort: 
ce n'est pas que Ton ne dise niille choses qui doivent donner de I'es- 
perance ; mais, mon Dieu, j'ai rimagination si vive, que tout ce qui 
est incertain me fait mourir. 

In 1669, Madame de Sevigne gave her beautiful daughter 
in marriage to the Count de Grignan, who was obliged soon 
after to repair to Provence, of which he was lieutenant-go- 
vernor. The mother deeply felt the separation thus involved, 
and the only consolation, besides the hope of meeting again, 
was found in the maintenance of a close and voluminous cor- 
respondence with Madame de Grignan. Hence the greater 
part of the letters which have rendered her name so celebrated. 

As for the matter they contain, it is abundantly multifari- 
ous. Here we have not only a mother's expostulations with 
her daughter for her somewhat unmaternal management of 
her children, and notices of her son — from which we learn 
that he was cheerful, amiable, a favorite of the best society in 
Paris, and the best company in the world at home ; sometimes 
exposed to the dangers of war; sometimes squandering time 
and money at court, but always unlucky 3 getting no promo- 
tion in the army, and having no patience to wait for advance- 
ment by court-favor ; at length retiring into the country, 
obscure, but happy with a quiet, unambitious, but religious 
wife — but besides, we have sketches of Madame de Sevigne' s 
principal friends — as Madame de la Fayette, M. and Madame 
de Coulanges, Madame Scarron, and all the principal person- 
ages of that brilliant age, who seem to have cultivated her 
acquaintance although she lived in a kind of disgrace, being 
excluded from court in consequence, as she supposed, of her 
early alliance with the Fronde, her friendship for Fouquet, 
and her Jansenist opinions. All the occurrences, as well as 
the characters of the day, are touched in these maternal let- 
ters; and so graphic is the pen, and so clear and easy the 
style, that we seem to live in those brilliant days, and to see 



292 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

and hear all that was going on. Be it remembered, that these 
were not the times of newspapers, by which a friend might, 
as now, with infinitely less labor, transmit such information. 
Here are great events detailed in the same tone as court-gossip, 
and court-gossip made as much of as great events — Louis XI Y., 
Turenne, Conde, the wars of France and of the Empire, freely 
mingled with details of housewifery, projects of marriage, and 
bills of fare for the official dinners of the gouvernante of Pro- 
vence ; the seventeenth century, in short, depicted in the cor- 
respondence of two women who knew nothing so important as 
their own affairs. This ease and versatility — abandon^ as the 
French call it— is considered the highest charm of these letters. 
The death of the Marquis do Turenne, for instance, is thus 
referred to :— - 

Ne croyez point, ma fille, que le souvenir de M. de Turenne soit 
deja fini dans ce pays-ci: ce fleuve, qui entraine tout, n'entraine pas 
sitot une telle memoire; elle est consacree a rimniortalite. J'etois 
I'autre jour cbez M. de la Rochefoucauld, avec Madame de Lavardin, 
Madame de la Fayette, et M. de Marsillac. M. le Premier y vint. 
La conversation dura deux heures sur les divines qualites de ce veri- 
table heros : tons les yeux etoient baignes de larmes, et vous ne sauriez 
croire comme la douleur de sa perte est profondement grave dans lea 
coeurs. Nous remarquions une chose, c'est que ce n'est pas depuis sa 
mort que Ton admire la grandeur de son cceur, Fetendue de ses 
lumi^res, et rclcvation de son ame ; tout le monde en etoit plein pen- 
dant sa vie, et vous pouvez penser ce que fait sa perte par-dessus ce 
qu'on etoit deja: enfin, ne croyez point que cette mort soit ici comme 
celle des autres. Vous pouvez en parler tant qu'il vous plaira, sans 
croire que la dose de votre douleur I'emporte sur la noire. Pour son 
ame, c'est encore un miracle qui vient de I'estime parfaite qu'on avoit 
pour lui ; il n'est pas tomb6 dans la tete d'aucun devot qu'elle ne fut 
pas en bon 6tat : on ne sauroit comprendre que le mal et le peche pus- 
sent etre dans son coeur : sa conversion si sincere nous a paru comme 
un bapteme ; chacun conte Finnocence de ses moeurs, la puret^ de ses 
intentions, son humility, ^loignde de toute sorte d'affeetation ; la solide 
gloire dont il <3toit plein, sans faste et sans ostentation; aimant la 



MADAME DE SEVIGNE. 293 

vertu pour elle-meme, sans se soucier de rapprobation des horames ; 
une charity genereuse et chretienne. Vous ai-je dit comme il I'liabilla 
ce regiment anglois ? il lui couta quatorze mille francs, et il resta sans 
argent. Les Anglois ont dit a M. de Lorges qu'ils achbveroient de 
servir cette campagne, pour venger la mort de M. de Turenne, mais 
qu'apr^s cela ils se retireroient, ne pouvant cbeir a d'autres que lui. 
II y avoit de jeunes soldats qui s'impatientoient un peu dans les marais, 
oil ils etoient dans I'eau jusqu'aux genoux ; et les vieux soldats leur 
disoient ^' Quoi, vous vous plaignez ! On voit bien que vous ne con- 
noissez pas M. de Turenne : il est plus fache que nous quand nous 
sommes mal ; il ne songe, a I'heure qu'il est, qu'a nous tirer d'ici ; il 
veille quand nous dormons ; c'est notre pere : on voit bien que vous 
^tes jeunes.'* Et c'est ainsi qu'ils les rassuroient. Tout ce que je vous 
mande est vrai ; je ne me charge point des fadaises dont on croit faire 
plaisir aux gens eloignes: c'est abuser d'eux, et je choisis bien plus 
ce que je vous ecris, que ce que je vous dirois, si vous ^tiez ici. Je 
reviens a son ame : c'est done une chose a remarquer, que nui devot 
ne s'est avise de douter que Dieu ne I'eut re9uea bras ouverts, comme 
une des plus belles et des meilleures qui soient jamais sorties de ses 
mains. Meditez sur cette confiance generale sur son salut, et vous 
trouverez que c'est une espece de miracle qui n'est que pour lui. 
Vous verrez dans les nouvelles les effets de cette grande perte. 

Here is anotlier cliaracteristic passage : — 

Yous savez que je suis toujours un peu entetee de mes lectures. 
Ceux a qui je parle ont interet que je lise de bons livres : celui dont 
il s'agit presentement, c'est cette Morale de Nicole : il y a un traite 
sur les moyens d'entretenir la paix entre les hommes, qui me ravit: 
je n'ai jamais rien vu de plus utile, ni si plein d' esprit et de lumieres. 
Si vous ne I'avez pas lu, lisez-le ; si vous I'avez lu, relisez-le avec une 
nouvelle attention : je crois que tout le monde s'y trouve ; pour moi, 
je suis persuadee qu'il a ete fait a mon intention ; j'esp^re aussi d'en 
profiter; j'y ferai mes efforts. Vous savez que je ne puis souffrir que 
les vieilles gens disent, *' Je suis trop vieux pour me corriger:" je 
pardonnerois plutot aux jeunes gens de dire, *' Je suis trop jeune." 
La jeunesse est si aimable, qu'il faudrait I'adorer, si I'ame et I'esprit 
etoient aussi parfaits que le corps ; mais quand on n'est plus jeune, 
c'est alors qu'il faudroit se perfectionner, et tacher de regagner par 
les bonnes qualites ce qu'on perd du cotd desagrdable. II y a long- 
25* 



294 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

temps que j'ai fait ces reflexions, et pour cette raison je veux tous Tes 
jours travailler a mon esprit, a mon ame, a mon coeur, k mes senti- 
mens. Voila de quoi je suis pleine, et de qnoi je remplis cette lettre, 
n'ayant pas beaucoup d'autres sujets. 

A long life seems to liave been thus spent by this gifted lady 
in observing and describing the characters and occurrences of 
the age of Louis XIV. , with the occasional variety of a journey 
to her estate in Brittany^ or a visit to her daughter in Pro- 
vence^ marked only by a blank space in her correspondence. 
She died after a short illness at the age of seventy, leaving, in 
the circle of friendship, a gap which could not easily be filled. 

Considerable interest attaches, likewise, to the letters of 
Madame de Maintenon, a lady whose life presents singular 
contrasts, worthy of the times. She was born (1635) in the 
prison of Mirt, where her parents were incarcerated for their 
adherence to the Protestant religion, and was early left an 
orphan. After having been herself first a Catholic and then 
a Calvinist, she finally attached herself to the former persua- 
sion, and became distinguished for a devotional character. 
She lived in deep poverty till the poet Scarron, though aged 
and infirm, united himself to her in marriage for the sake of 
ajBfording her support and protection. Her house was for some 
time the rendezvous of all that was most intellectual in Parisian 
society ; and on Scarron' s death she was saved from relapsing 
into destitution by the continuance of his pension of 2000 
francs to her as his widow. Being afterwards intrusted by 
Louis XIV. privately to educate the children of Madame de 
Montespan, she gradually superseded that lady in his afi*ec- 
tions; he bestowed on her the estate of Maintenon (1674), 
and secretly married her after the death of the queen, as she 
declined, on religious grounds, to sustain any relation uncon- 
secrated by the church's blessing. The archbishop of Paris, 
and the minister who witnessed the ceremony, solemnly 



MADAME DE MAINTENON. 295 

pledged the monarcli never to avow it, and, it is said, had no 
small difficulty in keeping him to his promise. To the influ- 
ence of this lady is attributed much that was inauspicious in 
the latter part of Louis's reign — the combination of ascetic 
devotion and religious bigotry with flagrant immorality; the 
appointment of unskilful generals and weak-minded ministers; 
the persecution of the Jansenists ; and, above all, the revoca- 
tion of the Edict of Nantes, which had secured religious free- 
dom to the Protestants. 

Here ended what French critics call their purely literary 
literature. Thus far it had been its own end, rather than a 
means for the accomplishment of ulterior objects — the master, 
not the servant ; henceforth it was to sustain a new vocation. 



THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 



XIX.— THE DAWN OF SCEPTICISM. 

CONTRAST BETWEEN THE SPIRIT OF THE SEVENTEENTH AND THAT OF THE 

EIGHTEENTH CENTURY — TRANSITION BAYLE — J. B. ROUSSEAU — CHAU- 

LIEU — LE SAGE — PREVOST — FONTENELLE — LA MOTTE. 

In tlie age wMcli lias just passed under review, we have 
vseen religion, antiquity, and the monarchy of Louis XIV., 
each exercising a distinct and powerful influence over the 
youthful buoyancy of French genius, which cheerfully sub- 
mitted to their chastening and restraining power. Under 
these circumstances, a school of taste and eloquence had been 
formed, which gave law to the rest of Europe, and constituted 
France the leading spirit of the age. On the other hand, the 
dominant influences of the eighteenth century were a sceptical 
philosophy, a preference for modern literatures, and a rage 
for political reform. 

The transition, however, was not sudden or immediate. 
Even as in the order of the material universe changes the 
most complete are brought about by insensible degrees, so this 
revolution in the world of mind was at first gradual ; a thou- 
sand symptoms had announced its approach, and it darkened 
on the world by successive shades. The two eras, however 
unlike each other, meet at certain points, and there are certain 
works which exhibit the characteristics of both. It is this 

(296) 



TRANSITION. 297 

transition period whicli we are now more particularly to notice, 
or rather those transition works whicli occupy the midway posi- 
tion between the submissive and religious age of Louis XIV.;, 
and the daring infidelity and republicanism of the eighteenth 
century. 

According to this moral chronology, the eighteenth century 
began with the first timid protestation against the splendid 
monarchy of Louis XIV. , or the domination of the Romish 
Church, or the classical authority of antiquity; and it ended 
when words came to deeds in the sanguinary Eevolution of 
1789. It is too easy to mark the steps of this progress. 

When the first generation of great men who sunned them- 
selves under the glance of Louis XIV. had passed away, there 
were found none to succeed them. The same influence gave 
birth to no rising genius of similar kind, and the glory of the 
monarch began to fade as the noble cortege disappeared. The 
obedience and respect around him continued the same as ever, 
but the admiration and enthusiasm were no more. At the 
commencement of his reign he had dazzled all who approached 
him ; and the feelings of those who immediately surrounded 
the throne spread throughout the whole country. Towards 
the close, the courtiers first abated their adoration. It would 
have been difficult, indeed, for young princes and nobles to 
maintain their veneration for a king who, while exacting regu- 
larity of morals from them, did himself, in the face of the 
country, and despite the most sacred laws, bring forward as 
his children the offspring of a double adultery ; a king who 
evinced his religious zeal by banishing the Protestants, and 
persecuting the last remnants of the Port Royalists, and who 
blushed not to wear in the most public manner the yoke of a 
woman whose character might have fitted her to govern a con- 
vent, but not to reign over an empire. Though these incon- 
sistencies were somewhat veiled under imposing appearances 
of rigorous devotion, and though the misfortunes which resulted 



298 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

from tliese errors were borne with resignation, it is easy to see 
that the new generation, which had not shared the glory and 
prosperity of the old monarch, and was not subjugated by the 
recollections of his early splendor, was not proud of the yoke, 
like its fathers. 

In presence of the king, and beneath his majestic aspect, no 
one dared to infringe the order he had prescribed ; but even 
in his own palace, his children, with their favorites and com- 
panions, indulged in disorders which were easily hidden from 
the now dimming sight of the august old man ; religion and 
morality became objects of ridicule ; their authority was 
deemed nugatory, since they daily lent themselves to serve 
the caprices of the sovereign, who persuaded himself that he 
observed their laws, and desired that others also should strictly 
conform. A certain indifference for principles began to prevail; 
men ventured to doubt opinions once unquestioned ; a habit of 
jesting with everything, and unblushing cynicism, did all but 
appear beneath the royal eyes, and afflict the declining years 
of the aged Louis. Even in the men who appeared most 
scrupulously attached to the traditions of his best days, a 
change of feeling was apparent. Massillon, for instance, 
preached in a very different tone from Bossuet; he indeed 
exhorted the people to obedience, but at the same time re- 
minded the king that it was necessary to merit it by respect- 
ing their rights. 

The spirit and principles of the court had undergone this 
change before the literature took any other direction than that 
which had been impressed upon it by the illustrious authors 
who had one by one disappeared. 

Meanwhile, beyond the bounds of France were several 
writers who had a mind of their own. These were the Pro- 
testants, exiled by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. 
They avenged themselves for the persecution to which they 
bad been subjected, by inveighing against the monarch and 



BAYLE. 299 

the Roman Catliolic religion. Their works found their way 
into France, and found spirits inclined to discontent, and 
ready to imbibe from them a contempt for the authority of 
the government. 

Among these refugees was a man whose works must live, 
though the obscure libels of the rest are almc^t forgotten. We 
allude to Bayle, the coolest and boldest of doubters, the 
Montaigne of the seventeenth century. He had been edu- 
cated in Protestantism, which the Jesuits forced him to abjure 
in his youth, but to which he speedily returned. In 1675 he 
obtained a professorship of philosophy at Sedan, and occupied 
it with distinction till the suppression of the universities in 
1681, when he received a similar appointment at Rotterdam. 
In the same year he published his Pensees sur la Comete, in 
which he attacked the vulgar prejudice which regarded this 
meteor as a certain presage of evil. Such was his first step. 
In 1684 he began the literary journal known under the title 
of Nouvelles de la Repiiblique des Lettre^'^ and, from the time 
of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, wrote boldly against 
the intolerance of Louis XIV. In his Bictionnaire His- 
torique et Critique^ he exhumed the most paradoxical opinions, 
and adduced new arguments in support of them, but without 
avowing them as his own. '^ Circumspect towards power, '^ 
says Yillemain, '^ but with the utmost temerity against dogmas; 
cool about political independence, but resolved upon philosophic 
liberty — Bayle affords the first announcement and' character- 
istic of the earliest school of the eighteenth century. At 
once a compiler and dialectician, the most thoughtful of erudite 
men, and the retailer of anecdotes of a world-wide history, 
his book — a vast magazine of knowledge and incredulity — was 
calculated to supersede the necessity of study to a lively and 
thoughtless age/' But the innovations of Bayle, sheltered as 
he was in a foreign and hostile country, do not seem to have 



300 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

had any very immediate or powerful influence on the mind of 
France. He has been called the Montaigne of the seven- 
teenth century, because he employs scepticism to destroy 
existing opinions, but without substituting any of his own. 
In the mind of Bayle, doubt is the end, not the means ; he 
maintains a perfect balance of opinions, which nothing has 
power to swerve either to this side or that. Uncertainty seems 
to be his delight, his spirit being in no way depressed by 
ignorance on questions of the most vital importance to man. 
But his is learned and philosophic scepticism, and he ridicules 
those who lightly reject without examination, still more than 
those who believe with docile credulity. The pleasantry of 
Bayle is generally coarse and vulgar, though mingled with the 
pedantry of the critic ; and this might have gone far to 
diminish the influence of his works, had there not since arisen 
at various times men who have equipped themselves in his 
armory, adding elegance to his pleasantries, polishing them for 
the frivolous, and thus procuring for them a universal cur- 
rency. 

About the same time appeared, in the person of Jean 
Baptiste Rousseau, what had been wanting in the literary 
glory of Louis XIV. — a lyric poet. Malherbe had found no 
successor as Corneille had done. The sphere of lyric poetry, 
indeed, presents singular difificulties from the structure of the 
French language, and these have been rendered greater by the 
passion for imitating the ancients. ^' If lyric poetry,^' says 
Barante, ^^ had not received foreign and antique importations 
— if she had remained the daughter of our old fabliaux, of our 
chivalrous romances, of our mediaeval mysteries, of our Gothic 
superstitions — she might perhaps have vegetated long in in- 
fancy; but she would have retained a true and national cha- 
racter, an intimate connexion with our manners, our religion, 
and the annals of our country. It has not been so. About 



J. B. ROUSSEAU. 301 

the sixteentli century, our authors, instead of perfecting the 
Gallic literature, took upon them to be the heirs of Greece and 
Rome. They adopted gods which we never worshipped, and 
customs which we never practised, repudiating all the recol- 
lections of France to transport themselves into those of anti- 
quity. They began to copy or to travesty the ancient models, 
and repel the impressions and inspirations of daily life. 
Poetry, once the charm of palace and chateau — poetry, which 
our kings and chevaliers, illiterate as they were, traced with 
the points of their swords, to express their loves and their 
griefs — became the exclusive patrimony of pedants who were 
versed in Horace and Pindar, but who knew nothing of 
nature.'' 

It was especially in lyric poetry, which ought to be the 
expression of the author's own thoughts and feelings, that this 
vice was most sensibly manifest. The man who will travel to 
Rome or to Greece to describe what he feels, may have some 
enthusiasm himself, but it will rarely affect his readers. 
Hence the fine odes of Rousseau, though confessedly displaying 
considerable energy, and a kind of pompous harmony which 
no other has imparted to the language, yet fails to excite the 
sympathy. It pleases the ear, perhaps commends itself to the 
fancy, but fails to reach the heart. We remark, too, the 
spirit which we have described as hanging about the last years 
of Louis XIV. ; the free comminglement of licentious morals, 
with a taste for religious sublimities. Rousseau translated the 
Psalms, as well as composed epigrams on the clergy, and odes 
of a sufficiently profane character.* 

* He was born at Paris in 1670. His father was a shoemaker. The boy 
was indebted to the Jesuits for his education. After his first dramatic suc- 
cess, he refused to recognise his father. Lamotte, also of humble origin, 
wrote him the following lines : 

^' On ne se choisit point son pere. 
Par un reproche populaire 
26 



302 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

The Abbe Chaulieu (1689-1720) devoted Ms verse to 
tlie service of voluptuous pleasure, and earned the appel- 
lation of the Anacreon of the Temple ; but he did not, like 
Rousseau, prostitute poetry in strains of low debauchery. His 
Louanges de la vie Champetre is considered the earliest good 
specimen of pastoral poetry in the language. Voltaire calls 
him '' Le premier des poetes negliges J' 

The tragedians followed closely in the footsteps of Eacine 
with more or less success. Comedy continued with some vigor 
to represent the corrupt manners of the age ; and Le Sage, 
the rival of Regnard and Dancourt, applied the same talent to 
romance, which thus assumed a new character in his hands. 
He was a student of Spanish literature, and was imbued with 
its spirit. He was renowned for his humorous and witty plays 
and novels. He is best known by his Gil Bias, Diahle Box- 

Le sage n'est point abattu ; 
Oui, quoiquo le vulgaire pense, 
Rousseau, la plus vile naissance 
Donne du lustre a la vertu." 

He was banished from France on account of certain verses, which were 
attributed to him. He attached himself to M. de Luc, French ambassador 
in Switzerland. He afterwards received permission to return to his native 
land. He went to Paris, however, only once, and then in disguise. He 
died at Brussels in 1741. Piron wrote the following famous Epitaph upon 
him: 

" Ci-git Tillustre et malheureux Rousseau; 

La Brabante fut sa tombo et Paris son berceau. 

Voici Tabrege de sa vie, 

Qui fut trop longue de moiti^ ; 

II fut trente ans digne d'envie, 

Et trente ans digne de pitie." 

Voltaire and he were bitter enemies. Their hostility was occasioned 
by criticisms, which each made upon the other. Voltaire visited Rousseau, 
and read a poem, in which the latter found great impiety. Rousseau then 
read his Ode d la Poaterite. "Voila," said Voltaire, "une lettre, qui 
n'arrivera jamais il son adresse." This, their first interview, was their last. 



PREVOST — FONTENELLE. 303 

fpMXj and BacTielier de Salamanca^ whicli have been translated 
into almost every European language. Gil Bias is a picture 
of tlie human heart under the aspect at once of the vicious and 
the ridiculous. Le Sage, like Moliere, appreciated human folly 
without analyzing it, and is one of the last authors who de- 
lineated character, instead of defining it. 

The Abbe Prevost (1697-1763) was also a prolific writer 
of romances. Manon Lescaut is his most noted work. 

FoNTENELLE (1657-1757), a nephew of the great Cor- 
neille, is not only regarded as the great link between the seven- 
teenth and the eighteenth centuries, having been born early 
enough to witness the splendors of the best days of Louis 
XIV., and lived long enough to see the greatest men of the 
eighteenth century; but he is considered to have coquetted 
with both, and, as it has been expressed, to have used one-half 
of his understanding to hide the other. He made his d^but 
in tragedy, in which, however, he found no encouragement. 
An ardent zeal for the honor of his uncle, as well as some feel- 
ings of personal pique, induced him to set himself against the 
reigning tastes in literature, and in common with La Motte 
and Perrault, he vigorously disputed the authority of classic 
antiquity. The gentleness and indolence of his disposition, 
however, prevented him from embracing any opinion with 
great warmth : he attached to his views neither so much cer- 
tainty nor so much importance as to induce others to adopt 
them. He had early imbibed the Cartesian philosophy, and 
retained his regard for it, but without either zealously defend- 
ing it, or attacking the new school, which was gaining ground. 
This indolence appears in his works, which are remarkable 
rather for delicacy and impartiality, than for striking origi- 
nality. His Lettres Galantes display frivolous wit, and little 
else; but the man of science appears in his Dialogues des 



804 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Morts, and his PluralitS des Mondes. And there is much 
appreciation of virtue as well as of science, though half hidden 
under the coldness and precision of the language, in his 
Histoire des Oracles and his Eloges des Academiciens, 

La Motte (1672-1731) bore some resemblance to Fonte- 
nelle, both in his character and opinions. Cold and factitious 
in his lyrics, sometimes graceful in the Anacreontic ode, a 
fabulist without simplicity, though with some ingenuity, he 
was happier in the dramatic career, but more distinguished in 
criticism than in any other sphere of authorship. He defended 
with subtlety the cause which Perrault had maintained without 
either wit or learning against the poetical creed of Racine and 
Boileau. Together they raised the standard of revolt against 
the worship of antiquity, and would have dethroned pdetry 
itself on the ground of its inutility. Thus scepticism com- 
menced by established literary doctrines becoming matters of 
doubt and controversy. Before attacking more serious creeds, 
it fastened on literary ones — a kind of skirmish before serious 
action. 

Such is the picture presented by the earlier part of the 
eighteenth century. Part of the generation had remained 
attached to the traditions of the great age ; others opened the 
path into which the whole country was about to throw itself. 
The faith of the nation in its political institutions, its religion, 
and its literary creed, was shaken to its foundation, the positive 
and the palpable began to engross every interest hitherto occu- 
pied with the ideal ; and this disposition, so favorable to the 
cultivation of science, brought with it a universal spirit of 
criticism. The habit of reflecting was generally diffused; 
people were not afraid to exercise their own judgment; every 
man had begun to form a higher estimate of himself and of 
his own opinion, and to care less for those hitherto received as 
of undoubted authority. Still, literature had not taken any 



MONTESQUIEU. 805 

very positive direction : there had not appeared men of suffi- 
ciently powerful genius to give it a decisive impulse. 



XX.— OPEN ATTACK ON RELIGION AND GOVERNMENT. 

Montesquieu's lettres persanes — esprit des lois — dialogue between 

SYLLA AND EUCRATES — VOLTAIRE — CHARACTER OP HIS GENIUS — HIS LIFE 
AND WORKS. 

The first powerful attack on the manners, institutions, and 
establishments of France, and indeed of Europe in general, is 
that conveyed in the Lettres Persanes of the Baron de Mon- 
tesquieu, a work on the same plan as Goldsmith's Citizen of 
the World. Under the transparent veil of pleasantries aimed 
at the Moslem religion, and even by more direct attacks, Mon- 
tesquieu sought to consign to ridicule the mode of theological 
reasoning in general, and the belief in every species of dogma. 
Notwithstanding the immense success which attended this 
effort of his youth, Montesquieu did not follow up this course, 
but abandoned light literature, to devote himself to the serious 
study of the philosophy of those laws with which he was 
already, as a magistrate, well acquainted. He withdrew also 
from the parliament (Court of Justice) of Bordeaux, of which 
he was president ; travelled through Italy, Switzerland, Hol- 
land, and afterwards accompanied Lord Chesterfield to Eng- 
land. On his return to the continent, he published his Con- 
siderations SUV les Causes de la Grandeur et de la Decadence 
des RomainSj which is said to be written as with the pen of 
Tacitus. Fourteen years afterwards appeared his Esprit des 
Lois, an extraordinary specimen of argument, erudition, and 
terseness of style. The work commences with this broad 
definition : — 
26* 



306 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Les lois, dans leur signification la plus ^tendue, ont les rapports 
n^cessaires qui d^rivent de la nature des choses, et dans ce sens 
tons les etres ont leurs lois ; La Divinite a ses lois, les intelligences 
superieures a rhomme ont leurs lois, les betes ont leurs lois, rhomme 
a ses lois. 

He then inquires into the facts which give birth to the different 
systems of legislation, and reasons from the circumstances of 
the case on the kind of legislation most suitable. It will not 
be denied that he places the mind too much under the dominion 
of matter, and argues for necessity rather than liberty, thus 
depriving moral obligation of much of its absolute character; 
yet the book is, on the whole, inspired with a spirit of justice 
and humanity. Montesquieu incited no one to rebel against 
any constituted authority: he taught respect for the laws 
more than love of liberty; and however he hated despotism, 
he hinted not that it should be violently overthrown. Here is 
an imaginary dialogue between Sylla and Eucrates. It may 
be doubted whether it is a true representation of the Sylla 
of history ; but it is as interesting a fragment as we can easily 
detach from the works of this author : — 

Quelques jours aprbs que Sylla se fut demis de la dictature, j'appris 
que la reputation que j'avais parmi les philosophes lui faisait souhaiter 
de me voir. II ^tait a sa maison de Tibur, oil il jouissait des premiers 
moments tranquilles de sa vie. Je ne sentis point devant lui le d^s- 
ordre oh. nous jette ordinairement la presence des grands hommes, et, 
dhs que nous fumes seuls : Sylla, lui dis-je, vous vous etes done mis 
vous-meme dans cet ^tat de mediocrite qui afiiige presque tons les 
humains ; vous avez renonc^ a cet empire naturel que votre gloire et 
vos vertus vous donnaient sur tons les hommes ! la fortune semble etre 
gen^e de ne plus vous Clever aux honneurs. 

Eucrate, me dit-il, si je ne suis plus en spectacle a I'univers, c'est 
la faute des choses humaines, qui ont des bornes, et non pas la mienne. 
J'ai cru avoir rempli ma destin(^e, d^s que je n'ai plus eu a faire de 
grandes choses. Je n'etais point fait pour gouverner tranquillement 
un peuple esclave. J'aime a remporter des victoires, a fonder ou 



MONTESQUIEU. 807 

d^truire des ^tats, h> faire des ligues, a punir un usurpateur ; mais pour 
ces minces details de gouvernement ou les genies mediocres ont tant 
d'avantages, cette lente execution des lois, cette discipline d'une milice 
tranquille, mon ame ne saurait s'en occuper. 

II est singulier, lui dis-je, que vous ayez port^ tant de delicatesse 
dans I'ambition ; nous avons bien vu de grands hommes peu touches 
du vain eclat et de la pompe qui entourent ceux qui gouvernent; 
mais il y en a bien peu qui n'aient ^t^ sensibles au plaisir de gou- 
verner, et de faire rendre h leurs fantaisies le respect qui n'est du, 
qu'aux lois. 

Et moi, me dit-il, Eucrate, je n'ai jamais ^te si peu content que lors- 
que je me suis vu maitre absolu dans Kome, que j'ai regarde autour 
de moi, et que je n'ai trouv^ ni rivaux ni ennemis. 

J'ai cru qu'on dirait quelque jour que je n'avais chatie que des 
esclaves. Veux-tu, me suis-je dit, que dans ta patrie il n'y ait plus 
d'hommes qui puissent etre touches de ta gloire ? et, puisque tu etablis 
la tyrannic, ne vois-tu pas bien qu'il n'y aura point apres toi de prince 
que la flatterie ne t'egale et ne pare de ton nom, de tes titres, et de 
tes vertus meme ? ^ 

Seigneur, vous changez toutes mes idees. De la fa9on dont je vous 
voyais agir, je croyais que vous aviez de I'ambition, mais aucun amour 
pour la gloire: je voyais bien que votre ame etait haute; mais je ne 
soupyonnais pas qu'elle fut grande : tout, dans votre vie, semblait me 
montrer un homme d^vore du desir de commander, et qui, plein de 
funestes passions, se chargeait avec plaisir de la honte, des remords, 
et de la bassesse meme, attaches a la tyrannic. Car enfin, vous avez 
tout sacrifie a votre puissance ; vous vous etes rendu redoutable a tons 
les Romains ; vous avez exerce sans pitie les fonctions de la plus ter- 
rible magistrature qui fut jamais. Le s^nat ne vit qu'en tremblant 
un defenseur si impitoyable. Quelqu'un vous dit: Sylla, jusqu'a 
quand repandras-tu le sang remain ? veux-tu ne commander qu'a des 
murailles ? Pour lors vous publiates ces tables qui deciderent de la 
vie et de la mort de chaque citoyen. 

Et c'est tout le sang que j'ai verse qui m'a mis en etat de faire la 
plus grande de toutes mes actions. Si j'avais gouverne les Remains 
avec douceur, quelle merveille que I'ennui, que le degout, qu'un 
caprice, m'eussent fait quitter le gouvernement? Mais je me suis 
demis de la dictature dans le temps qu'il n'y avait pas un seul homme 
dans runivers qui ne crut que la dictature etait mon seul asile ; j'ai 



808 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

paru devant les Romains, citoyen au milieu de mes concitoyens, et 
j'ai ose leur dire : Je suis pret a rendre compte de tout le sang que 
j'ai verse pour la republique ; je repondrai a tous ceux qui viendront 
me demander leur p^re, leur fils ou leur fr^re. Tous les Romains se 
sont tus devant moi. 

Cette belle action dont vous me parlez me parait bien imprudente. 
II est vrai que vous avez eu pour vous le nouvel etonnement dans 
lequel vous avez mis les Romains. Mais comment osates-vous leur 
parler de vous justifier, et prendre pour juges des gens qui vous 
devaient tant de vengeances ? 

Quand toutes vos actions n'auraient ^t^ que sev^res pendant que 
vous etiez le maitre, elles devenaient des crimes affreux des que vous 
ne I'etiez plus. 

Vous appelez des crimes, me dit-il, ce qui a fait le salut de la 
republique. Vouliez-vous que je visse tranquillement des senateurs 
trahir le senat pour ce peuple qui, s'imaginant que la liberte doit etre 
aussi extreme que le pent etre I'esclavage, cherchait a abolir la magis- 
trature meme ? 

te peuple, gen^ par les lois et par la gravite du senat, a toujours 
travaille a renverser Tun et I'autre. Mais celui qui est assez ambi- 
tieux pour le servir contre le senat et les lois, le fut toujours assez 
pour devenir son maitre. C'est ainsi que nous avons vu finir tant de 
republiques dans la Gr^ce et dans I'ltalie. 

Pour prdvenir un pareil malheur, le senat a toujours ^te oblig^ 
d'occuper a la guerre ce peuple indocile. II a ete forc^, malgre lui, 
a ravager la terre et k soumettre tant de nations dont I'ob^issance 
nous pese. A present que I'univers n'a plus d'ennemis a nous donner, 
quel serait le destin de la republique ? et sans moi, le sdnat aurait-il 
pu empecher que le peuple, dans sa fureur aveugle pour la liberty, ne 
se livrat lui-meme a Marius, ou au premier tyran qui lui aurait fait 
esp^rer I'independance ? 

Les dieux, qui ont donne a la plupart des hommes une lache ambi- 
tion, ont attach^ a la liberte presque autant de malheurs qu'a la 
servitude ; mais quel que doive etre le prix de cette noble liberty, il 
faut bien le payer aux dieux. 

La mer engloutit les vaisseaux, elle submerge des pays entiers, et 
elle est pourtant utile aux humains. 

La posterity jugera ce que Rome n'a pas encore os^ examiner ; elle 



MONTESQUIEU. 309 

trouvera peut-etre que je n'ai pas assez vers^ de sang et que tous les 
partisans de Marius n'ont pas ete proscrits. 

II faut que je I'avoue, Sylla, vous m'etonnez. Quoi ! c'est pour le 
bien de votre patrie que vous avez vers6 tant de sang ! et vous avez 
eu de I'attachement pour elle I 

Eucrate, me dit-il, je n'eus jamais cet amour dominant pour la 
patrie dont nous trouvons tant d'exemples dans les premiers temps de 
la republique, et j'aime autant Coriolan, qui porte la flamme et le 
fer jusqu'aux murailles de sa ville ingrate, qui fait repentir chaque 
citoyen de I'affront que lui a fait chaque citoyen, que celui qui chassa 
les Gaulois du Capitole. Je ne me suis jamais pique d'etre I'esclave 
ni I'idolatre de la soci^t^ de mes pareils ; et cet amour tant vante est 
une passion trop populaire pour etre compatible avec la hauteur de 
mon ame. Je me suis uniquement conduit par mes reflexions, et sur- 
tout par le mepris que j'ai eu pour les hommes. On pent juger, par 
la mani^re dont j'ai traite le seul grand peuple de I'univers, de I'exc^s 
de ce mepris pour tous les autres. 

J'ai cru qu'etant sur la terre il fallait que j'y fusse libre. Si j'etais 
n^ chez les barbares, j'aurais moins cherche a usurper le trone pour 
commander que pour ne pas obeir. Ne dans une republique, j'ai 
obtenu la gloire des conquerants en ne cherchant que celle des hom- 
mes libres. 

Lorsque avec mes soldats je suis entre dans Rome, je ne respirais 
ni la fureur ni la vengeance. J'ai juge sans haine, mais aussi sans 
pitie, les Remains etonn^s. Vous etiez libres, ai-je dit, et vous voulez 
vivre esclaves ! non, mais mourez, at vous aurez I'avantage de mourir 
citoyens d'une ville libre. 

J'ai cru qu'oter la liberte dans une ville dont j'etais citoyen etait 
le plus grand crime. J'ai puni ce crime-la; et je ne me suis point 
embarrasse si je serais le bon ou le mauvais g^nie de la republique. 
Cependant le gouvernement de nos peres a ete retabli ; le peuple a 
expie tous les affronts qu'il avait faits aux nobles : la crainte a suspen- 
du les jalousies ; et Rome n'a jamais ete si tranquille. 

Vous voila instruit de ce qui m'a ddtermin^ a toutes les sanglantes 
tragedies que vous avez vues. Si j'avais v^cu dans ces jours heureux 
de la republique oil les citoyens, tranquilles dans leurs maisons, y 
rendaient aux dieux une ame libre, vous m'auriez vu passer ma vie 
dans cette retraite, que je n'ai obtenue que par tant de sang et de 
Bueur. 



310 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Seigneur, lui dis-je, il est heureux que le ciel ait epargne au genre 
bumain le nombre des hommes tels que vous. Nes pour la medio- 
crite, nous sommes accables par les esprits sublimes ; pour qu'un 
liomme soit au-dessus de I'liumanite, il en coute trop cher a tons les 
autres. 

Vous avez regarde I'ambition des heros comme une passion commune, 
et vous n'avez fait cas que de I'ambition qui raisonne ; le desir insa- 
tiable de dominer, que vous avez trouve dans le coeur de quelques 
citoyens, vous a fait prendre la resolution d'etre un homme extraor- 
dinaire : I'amour de votre liberte vous a fait prendre celle d'etre ter- 
rible et cruel. Qui dirait qu'un heroisme de principe eut ^te plus 
funeste qu'un heroisme d'impetuosite ? Mais si, pour vous empecher 
d'etre esclave, il vous a fallu usurper la dictature, comment avez-vous 
ose la rendre ? Le peuple romain, dites-vous, vous a vu desarm^, et 
n'a point attente sur votre vie. C'est un danger auquel vous avez 
echappe, un plus grand danger pent vous attendre. II pent vous 
arriver de voir quelque jour un grand criminel jouir de votre modera- 
tion, et vous confondre dans la foule d'un peuple soumis. 

J'ai un nom, me dit-il, et il me suffit pour ma surete et celle du 
peuple romain. Ce nom arrete toutes les entreprises ; et il n'y a 
point d'ambition qui n'en soit dpouvantee. Sylla respire, et son genie 
est plus puissant que celui de tons les Komains. Sylla a autour de lui 
Cheronee, Orchomene et Signion. Sylla a donne a chaque famille de 
Rome un exemple domestique et terrible : chaque Romain m'aura 
toujours devant les yeux; et, dans ses songes memes, je lui apparaitre 
convert de sang ; il croira voir les funestes tables et lire son nom a la 
tete des proscrits. On murmure en secret centre mes lois ; mais elles 
ne seront pas effacees par des flots meme de sang romain. Ne suis-je 
pas au milieu de Rome? Vous trouverez encore chez moi le javelot 
que j'avais a Orchomene, et le bouclier que je portai sur les murailles 
d'Atbenes. Parce que je n'ai point de licteurs,. en suis-je moins Sylla ? 
j'ai pour moi le senat avec la justice et les lois ; le senat a pour lui 
mon genie, ma fortune et ma gloire. 

J'avoue, lui dis-je, que, quand on a une fois fait trembler quel- 
qu'un, on conserve presque toujours quelque chose de I'avantagc 
qu'on a pris. 

Sans doute, me dit-il. J'ai etonne les hommes, et c'est beaucoup, 
Repassez dans votre memoire I'histoire de ma vie : vous verrez que 
j'ai tout tir^ de ce principe, et qu'il a 6te I'ame de toutes mes actions. 



MONTESQUIEU. 311 

Ressouvenez-vous de mes demeles avec Marius: je fus indign^ de voir 
un homme sans nora, fier de la bassesse de sa uaissance, entreprendre 
de ramener les premieres families de Rome dans la foule du peuple ; 
et dans cette situation, je portais tout le poids d'une grande ame. 
J'^tais jeune, et je me resolus de me mettre en ^tat de demander 
compte a Marius de ses mepris. Pour cela je I'attaquai avec ses 
propres armes, c'est-a-dire par des victoires contre les ennemis de la 
r^publique. 

Lorsque, par le caprice du sort, je fus oblig^ de sortir de Rome, ^ 
je me eonduisis de meme : j'allai faire la guerre a Mithridate; et je 
crus detruire Marius a force de vaincre I'ennemi de Marius. Pen- 
dant que je laissais ce Remain jouir de son pouvoir sur la populace, 
je multipliais ses mortifications ; et je le for9ais tous les jours d'aller 
au Capitole rendre graces aux dieux des succes dont je le deses- 
p^rais. Je lui faisais une guerre de reputation, plus cruelle cent fois 
que celle que mes legions faisaient au roi barbare ; il ne sortait pas 
un seul mot de ma bouche qui ne marquat mon audace ; et mes moin- 
dres actions, toujours superbes, ^taient pour Marius de funestes 
presages. Enfin Mithridate demanda la paix : les conditions etaient 
raisonnables ; et si Rome eut ^t^ tranquille, ou si ma fortune n'avait 
pas ^te chancelante, je les aurais acceptees. Mais le mauvais ^tat de 
mes affaires m'obligea de les rendre plus dures ; j'exigeai qu'il detrui- 
Bit sa flotte, et qu'il rendit aux rois ses voisins tous les etats dont il 
les avait depouilles. Je te laisse, lui dis-je, le royaume de tes peres, 
a toi qui devrais me remercier de ce que je te laisse la main avec 
laquelle tu as signe Tordre de faire mourir en un jour cent mille 
Romains. Mithridate resta immobile ; et Marius, au milieu de Rome, 
en trembla. 

Cette meme audace qui m'a si bien servi contre Mithridate, contre 
Marius, contre son fils, contre Thelesinus, contre le peuple, qui a 
soutenu toute ma dictature, a aussi d^fendu ma vie le jour que je I'ai 
quittee, et ce jour assure ma liberte pour jamais. 

Seigneur, lui dis-je, Marius raisonnait comme vous, lorsque, con- 
vert du sang de ses ennemis et de celui des Romains, il montrait cette 
audace que vous avez punie. Vous avez bien pour vous quelques 
victoires de plus et de plus grands exc^s. Mais, en prenant la dicta- 
ture, vous avez donne I'exemple du crime que vous avez puni. Voila 
I'exemple qui sera suivi, et non pas celui d'une moderation qu'on ne 
fera qu'admirer. 



312 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Quand les dieux ont souffert que Sylla se soit impunement fait dic- 
tateur dans Rome, ils j ont proscrit la liberie pour jamais. II faudrait 
qu'ils fissent trop de miracles pour arracher a present du coeur de tous 
les capitaines romains I'ambition de regner. Vous leur avez appris 
qu'il y avait une voie bien plus sure pour aller a la tyrannie et la 
garder sans peril. Yous avez divulgue ce fatal secret, et ote ce qui 
fait seul les bons citoyens d'une republique trop riche et trop grande, 
le desespoir de pouvoir I'opprimer. 

II changea de visage, et se tut un moment. Je ne crains, me 
dit-il avec Amotion, qu'un homme dans lequel je crois voir plusieurs 
Marius. Le hasard, on bien un destin plus fort, me I'a fait epargner. 
Je le regarde sans cesse, j'etudie son ame : il y cache des desseins 
profonds. Mais, s'il ose jamais former cclui de commander a des 
hommes que j'ai faits mes egaux, je jure par les dieux que je punirai 
son insolence. 

The maturity of the eighteentli century is found in Vol- 
taire. He was the personification of its temerity, its spirit 
of derision, its zeal, its ardor, and its universality. Nor only 
of his own age. He embodied in himself whatever is most 
inborn and characteristic in the whole French nation. The 
Gallic spirit, which the trouveres faithfully transmitted to the 
authors of the Romance of the Rose, and which reappeared in 
Villon, in Comines, in Montaigne ; the spirit of freezing and 
biting irony; the spirit of analysis and annihilation; that spirit 
at once positive and passionate, fond of the palpable, averse to 
the marvellous ; that spirit which, even in the excesses to which 
it is driven by passion, preserves an instinctive sense of the 
just medium, and finds its way back again; that spirit, in 
short, which, by its versatility, is ready by turns and equally 
for custom and for novelty, found in Voltaire its most brilliant 
form and its most perfect type. In him nature had, so to 
speak, identified the individual with the nation, bestowing on 
him a character in the highest degree elastic, having no depth 
of passion, but abundance of lively sensibility ; little system 
either of principle or conduct, but that promptitude of self- 



VOLTAIRE. 313 

direction which, supplies its place ; a quickness of perception 
amounting almost to intuition, which, to a certain extent, 
justifies presumption; and an almost unexampled degree of 
activity, by which he was in some sort many men at once. No 
writer, even in the eighteenth century, knew so many things, 
or treated so many subjects. That which is the ruin of many 
minds, was the strength of his. He was the Briareus of 
literature, with his hundred arms, stretching in every direc- 
tion. True, he wanted some of the intellectual endowments 
necessary to universality of genius ; a few of them^ and these 
highly important. In every great man, some shades of char- 
acter are wanting, or are false: in Voltaire, the deficiency 
was that of the graver tones. 

Rich in diversified talent, and in the gifts of fortune, he 
proceeded to the conquest of his age with the combined 
power of the highest endowments, under the most favorable 
circumstances. 

The events of his life include little that is interesting, except 
as we see in them the progress of this victory. Voltaire, hunted 
again and again as a moral pest from the capital of France by 
the powers that would fain have preserved the people from his 
opinions ; yet ever gaining ground ; finding his wit always 
welcome, and his opinions gradually prevailing ; one audacious 
sentiment after another broached and branded with infamy, 
yet secretly entertained ; till the struggle was at length given 
up, and the nation, as with one voice, avowed itself to be h la 
Voltaire. 

This singular genius was the youngest son of Francis Arouet, 
notary of the Chatelet, and afterwards treasurer of the Chamber 
of Accounts, and was born at Chatenay, on the 20th of Feb- 
ruary, 1694. He was so weakly that he received the hasty 
and informal private baptism which is permitted in extreme 
cases, and not till ten months afterwards was he presented 
in the church for the more regular administration of the rite. 
27 



314 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

It was with reference to this that his godfather, the Abbe de 
Chateauneuf, said to the celebrated Ninon de TEnclos : '' He 
had a double baptism ] but it does not appear upon him, for 
he repeats the Mosalde by heart, though only three years of 
age/' This was an impious poem, attributed to J. B. Rous- 
seau, so that it has been said Voltaire showed symptoms of 
infidelity from infancy. The lady desired to hear him, and 
was so much pleased with his display of precocious talent, that 
by her will she left him 2000 livres, with which to purchase a 
library. The boy received his earliest education in the Jesuit's 
College of Louis XIY., under Paree and Le Jay; and here, 
amid the common routine of study and amusement, he gave 
way to sallies of wit, and mirth, and profanity, which astonished 
his companions and terrified his preceptors. Father Jay even 
then predicted with sorrow that he would raise the standard 
of deism in France. 

His father, desiring him to follow the legal profession, sent 
him to study law ; but he turned from it in disgust, and de- 
voted himself to literature. The Abbe de Chateauneuf, who 
seems to have been his earliest master in infidelity, now intro- 
duced him to a coterie of men distinguished for rank and 
talent, but claiming exemption from creeds and prejudices, with 
liberty to deride in secret all that they were obliged to appear 
to respect in the religion, the government, and the good morals, 
upheld, in theory at least, by Louis XIV. They were such as 
the Prince of Conti, the Duke and the Grand Prior of Ven- 
dome, the Marquis de la Fare, the Abb6 de Chaulieu, with 
the Abb^ de Chateauneuf himself, men destined by their birth 
to be the pillars of church and state, but secretly inclined to 
pour contempt upon both. Here the young Voltaire acquired 
that taste for aristocratic society, and ease in mingling with 
persons of rank, which formed a distinguishing trait in his 
character and manners. His father was grieved with his mode 
of life ; and with a view to withdraw him from it, induced the 



VOLTAIRE. 315 

Marquis of Chateauneuf, the French ambassador at the Hague, 
to take him with him as a page. But here he fell in love with the 
daughter of Madame du Noyer, a Protestant refugee, who made 
such a noise about the affair, that the poet was forced to return 
home. The poor father was broken-hearted between the poetry 
and profligacy of his youngest son, and the obstinate Jansenism 
of the eldest. He declared he had as sons two madmen — one 
in prose, the other in verse ; and he positively refused to for- 
give the latter, but on condition of his resuming the study of 
jurisprudence. He was, however, released from this by the 
kind interference of M. Caumartin, a friend of the family, 
who invited him to spend some time at his chateau of St. 
Ange, promising the father that he should not return to Paris 
till he had chosen a profession. It was not to be so, however. 
In this chateau lived M. Caumartin's father, an old man, who 
had known the court of Henry IV., as well as the earlier days 
of Louis XIV., and whose recollections furnished Voltaire with 
the materials of two of his most celebrated works. Louis XIV. 
was dying, and his hoary head was heaped with coarse and 
cowardly satires, instead of the eulogiums which had flattered 
his earlier years. One of these, which concluded with '^ J'ai 
vu ces maux, et je n'ai pas vingt ans,^^ was easily attributed, 
but unjustly, to the young Arouet, and he was thrown into 
the Bastille, where he projected the Henriadey and finished 
the tragedy of (Edipe. The regent receiving proofs of his 
innocence in the matter of the satire, about a year afterwards 
released him, allowed him to be presented at court, and pro- 
mised, that if he would be good, he would take care of him. 

^^ I thank your royal highness,'^ said the poet, '^ for your 
design of providing for my maintenance ; but I beg you will 
not again undertake the care of my lodging/^ It was at this 
time he assumed the name of Voltaire, saying that he hoped 
it would prove more auspicious than that of Arouet had been. 
The tragedy of (Edipe was played in 1718, and proved so sue- 



816 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

cessful, that even M. Arouet was conquered ; he embraced his 
son with tears of joy, and gave him leave to follow the bent 
of his genius. Another love affair, and another disgrace on 
political suspicions, diversified his career as a dramatist; but 
now he was to appear as an epic poet. He had resolved on 
publishing the Henriade, a heroic poem on the reign of Hesrj 
IV. y but first he would submit it, canto by canto, to the judg- 
ment of some literary friends. On one occasion he lost patience 
under their criticisms, and threw his work into the fire. The 
president, Henault, rescued it with difficulty, and at a future 
time reminded him of this service. ^^ Remember,'^ said he, 
^^ it was I that saved the Heiiriade, and it cost me a handsome 
pair of lace rufHes.'' Meanwhile, an imperfect edition of the 
work had been circulated surreptitiously in London, under the 
title of The League, and awakened against the author the zeal 
of the clergy, who averred its principles were semipelagian, 
and of the courtiers, who maintained they were seditious. He 
was refused license to print it ; and the young king declined 
accepting the dedication. Nevertheless, the reputation of the 
author spread and prevailed. He continued to frequent the 
company of the great; but a cruel incident now occurred, 
which taught him that their society had its dangers to balance 
against its fascinations. Dining one day with the Duke of 
Sully, he said something which offended the Chevalier de 
Rohan, a haughty young nobleman, who, a few days after- 
wards, had him soundly fiogged by his servant, while he 
stood by. Voltaire, burning with rage, begged, but in vain, 
that the duke would assist him to avenge the outrage ; then 
determining to take his cause into his own hands, he secluded 
himself to learn fencing and English ; the one to fight his 
adversary, the other to live out of France if the result of the 
combat should render it necessary. When he deemed himself 
expert enough to measure swords with De Rohan, he sent him 
a scornful challenge, which was accepted for the following 



VOLTAIRE. 317 

day; but the relatives, meanwhile, procured an order for his 
imprisonment. A second time, therefore, he was lodged in the 
Bastille, where he remained six months, and then obtained his 
release, only on condition of quitting the kingdom. He passed 
over into England, where he published the Henriade by sub- 
scription, and obtained leave to dedicate it to George I. At 
the same time he became acquainted with Bolingbroke and 
others, the most distinguished men of the time, and learned 
to use argument as well as ridicule in his war with religion. 
Hitherto, say his biographers, his hatred to its mysteries and 
its dogmas had inspired only bon-mots ; but in the school of 
English philosophy, he fortified himself with the facts and 
arguments which he afterwards used, without, however, re- 
nouncing the raillery which was best suited to his own genius, 
and most likely to find acceptance with his giddy countrymen. 
Here, also, he gathered from a man who had passed many 
years with Charles XII. of Sweden, most of the materials of 
which he afterwards composed the history of that adventurous 
monarch ; here, also, he sketched those Lettres Philosopliiqucs 
which drew down upon him more persecution than anything 
else he had written. 

Meanwhile, the lapse of three years had somewhat abated 
his wrath, and his own inclination seconded the invitation of 
his friends for his return to Paris. He lived for some time in 
a retired and obscure faubourg, occupying himself by turns 
with literary labors and financial speculations. He realized a 
considerable sum in a lottery, imported corn from Barbary, 
lent money to needy noblemen ; and afterwards coming into 
the possession of the paternal estate, found himself the pos- 
sessor of considerable wealth, of which he was always ready to 
employ a part in works of charity, and especially in aiding 
youthful literary talent. 

The comedian Lecouvreur having died and been refused 
the rites of sepulture, the poet composed some verses of so 
27* 



318 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

bold a character, that lie was in danger of another lodgment 
in the Bastille ; and to avoid it, feigned a second flight to 
England, while in truth he only retired to Rouen. Here he 
assumed the name of an English nobleman, and with the ut- 
most secrecy effected the printing of his Histoire de Charles 
XILy which had been forbidden, and his Lettres Philoso- 
phiquesy which he durst not even have asked leave to publish. 
Again, when the storm was over, he returned to Paris, but 
again was obliged to fly. The Lettres which he had got 
printed, but withheld from publication, were circulated through 
the treachery of a bookseller, who was imprisoned ; but the 
author not being forthcoming, the only further vengeance was 
that of burning the work by the hands of the hangman. This 
time his flight was not solitary. He had formed a liaison with 
the Marchioness du Chatelet — a strange compound of savante 
and mere woman. She studied geometry and metaphysics, 
translated Newton, and analyzed Leibnitz ; while she passion- 
ately loved dress, play, theatricals, and other more sensual 
pleasures. She retired with Voltaire from the frivolous circles, 
in which they had lost much time ; the gaming-tables, where 
they had lost much money ; and the suppers, where they had 
contracted many a fit of indigestion ; and the two took up 
their abode at Cirey, on the confines of Champagne and Lor- 
raine. Here they shared and partly exchanged intellectual 
pursuits. The lady, despite her taste for geometry, learned to 
love poetry ; and the poet, the better to understand and 
admire la sublime Umilie, entered with ardor on the study of 
the sciences, and wrote the Ulemens de la Philosophie de 
Newton, Madame du Chatelet, more prudent than he, and 
less under the power of imagination, watched over him with 
assiduity, strove to save him from others and from himself, 
to keep him out of scandalous quarrels, and dissuade him from 
compromising himself by improper productions. Their inter- 
course, however, was not without occasional storms, nor was 



VOLTAIRE. 319 

the poet's residence at Cirey by any means constant. Some- 
times business called him to Paris ; sometimes fear drove him 
abroad. Now the publication of a scandalous work forced him 
to repair to Holland ; now he escapes to Brussels ; and in 
1740, we find him assisting Frederic the Great to prepare a 
refutation of Macchiavelli. Now he becomes a favorite at 
court ; is appointed historiographer of France, a gentleman of 
the bed-chamber, and a member of the French Academy : but 
now Crebillon, his rival, is patronized ; he finds himself in 
bad savor, and retires with Madame du Chatelet to Luneville, 
in the neighborhood of King Stanislaus. Then he loses his 
mistress by death under singularly painful circumstances ; 
returns to Paris, and soon after accepts an invitation to reside 
at the court of Prussia. Here he was presented with the 
Order of Merit, the key of the chamberlain, and a pension of 
20,000 livres. He had apartments under those of the king, 
whom he was permitted to visit at stated hours to read with 
him, and assist in those literary occupations in which his 
majesty was wont to find recreation from the cares of govern- 
ment. But now he embroiled himself with Maupertuis, 
president of the Berlin Academy, and wrote a satire upon him, 
which the king ordered to be burned in presence of the writer. 
The royal litterateur himself did not escape the pitiless raillery 
of the poet, and a deadly quarrel was the consequence, on 
which he left Berlin. He would fain have taken up his resi- 
dence at Paris, but his Pucelle d^ Orleans had excited so much 
displeasure, that he was not allowed to remain in the capital. 
After residing some years at Colmar, he purchased a country- 
house in the neighborhood of Geneva ; but presently taking 
part in its political contentions, he found himself involved in 
disputes with many of the principal people of the place, and 
thought it prudent to leave it. He therefore purchased the 
estate of Ferney, in France, about three miles from the Lake 
of Geneva, where he resided during the rest of his days with 



820 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

his niece, Madame Denis. He induced manufacturers and 
others to settle around him, obtained for them important 
advantages, erected a church for them — made, in short, a 
pretty town of a wretched hamlet — and reigned like a petty 
prince among his subjects. From this retreat he poured 
out an exhaustless variety of works, which were extensively 
circulated and eagerly perused. They generally breathed a 
spirit of hostility to everything which contravened his ideas of 
freedom and independence ; but his war with ecclesiastical 
tyranny often degenerated into attacks on revealed religion 
itself and the morality it inculcates. Despite his faults, he 
was the admiration of all the wits and philosophers of Europe, 
and numbered among his correspondents and pupils some of 
the greatest sovereigns of the age. The king of Prussia 
renewed his intercourse with him, and Catherine II. of Russia 
sent him valuable presents. Meanwhile his principles made 
daily progress in Paris, and the importunities of his friends, 
combined with his own weariness of a quiet life, induced him, 
even at the advanced age of eighty-four, to revisit Paris. It 
is recorded, that when the officers of the customs stopped him 
with the usual inquiry, if he had any contraband goods with 
him, he replied, '' No, no ! nothing contraband except my- 
self.^' The king, hearing of his arrival, inquired if the decree 
of the parliament was still in force against him ; but nothing 
further was done to molest him. The intelligence circulated 
throughout Paris, and scarcely could the arrival of Kien'long 
or the Grand Lama of Tibet have produced greater excitement. 
His levees and his couchees were more crowded than those of 
any emperor; princes and peers thronged his ante-chamber; 
and when he rode through the streets, his carriage was as the 
nucleus of a comet whose train stretched far over the city. A 
hostile journalist of the day says : — 

" M. de Voltaire appeared in full-dress on Tuesday for the 
first time since his arrival in Paris. He had on a red coat 



VOLTAIRE. 321 

lined with ermine; a large black unpowdered pernke, d la 
Louis XIV., in wliicli liis withered face was so buried that one 
saw only bis two eyes shining like carbuncles. His head was 
surmounted by a square red cap in the form of a crown, which 
seemed only laid on, and he carried in his hand a small nibbed 
cane. The public of Paris laughed a good deal at his strange 
accoutrement. Doubtless this personage, always singular, is 
determined to have nothing in common with ordinary men.'' 

From the same hand we give an account of the coronation- 
ceremony, which is confirmed by other contemporaries : — 
• " On Monday, M. de Voltaire, resolving to enjoy the triumph 
which had been so long promised him, mounted his carriage, 
an azure-colored vehicle, bespangled with gold stars, which a 
wag called the chariot of the empyrean, and thus he repaired 
to the Academic Frangaise. Twenty-two members were pre- 
sent. The prelates, abbes, and other ecclesiastics who be- 
longed to it, declined attending, with the exception of the 
Abbe de Boismont, a court roidy with nought of his profession 
but its vestments ; and the Abbe Millot, a cinsire, who has no 
favor to look for either from the court or the church. 

^^The Academic went out to meet M. de Voltaire. He was 
led to the director's seat, over which his portrait had been 
hung; and the assembly, without drawing lots, as is the cus- 
tom, named him by acclamation director for the April quarter. 
The old man, once set agoing, would have made a long speech; 
but they told him they valued his health too much to hear 
him, and M. d'Alembert occupied the seance by reading his 
Eloge de Bespreaux, in which he had inserted various matters 
flattering to the new President. 

'' On leaving the Academic, Voltaire set out for the Comedie 
Frangaise. The immense court of the Louvre was full of 
people waiting for him, and as soon as his notable vehicle 
appeared in sight, the cry of ' Le voildr arose, and the 
acclamations of ' Vive Voltaire F resounded as if they would 



S22 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

never end. The Marquis de Vilette came to hand him out of 
his carriage^ the Procureur Clos also lent his arm, but the two 
could scarcely get him through the crowd. On his entering 
the theatre, a more elegant throng, seized with true enthusiasm 
for genius, surrounded him ; the ladies especially stopped his 
way, that they might have a better view of him. Some were 
seen pressing forward to touch his clothes, some plucking small 
tufts from his fur. 

'' The deity of the evening was to occupy the box belonging 
to the gentlemen of the bed-chamber, in which Madame Denis 
and Madamo de Vilette were already seated. The pit was in 
a perfect uproar, till the poet placed himself on the front seat 
beside the ladies, when the cry was ' La couronne F and 
Brizard, the actor, advancing, placed the garland on his head. 
* Ah, Heaven ! will you kill me then V cried M. de Voltaire, 
weeping with joy, and resisting the honor. He took the crown 
in his hand, and presented it to the Marchioness de Vilette ; 
she refused, and the Prince de Beauvau, seizing the laurel, 
replaced it on the head of our Sophocles, who could resist no 
longer. 

'' The piece — Irene — was acted, and with more applause 
than usual, though scarcely sufficient to correspond with this 
triumph of the author. At the end of the tragedy, the cur- 
tain fell, and the tumult of the people was extreme till it rose 
again, disclosing a spectacle like that of the Centenaire. M. 
de Voltaire's bust had been brought upon the stage, crowned, 
and elevated on a pedestal ; the whole body of players stood 
round it in a circle, with palms and garlands in their hands ; 
the pealing of drums and trumpets had announced the cere- 
mony; and Madame Vestris recited the following verses with 
an emphasis proportioned to the extravagance of the scene : — 

Aux yeux de Paris enchant^, 
Re9ois en ce jour un homraage, 
Que confirmera d'age en age, 
La S(Sv^re postdrite ! 



VOLTAIRE. 323 

Non, tu n'as pas besoin d'atteindre au noir rivage 
Pour jouir des honneurs de Fimmortalit^ ; 

Voltaire, regois la couronne 

Que Ton vient de te presenter ; 

II est beau de la m^riter, 

Quand c'est la France qui la donne I 

After an encore of this not very poetical effusion^ all the actors 
went forward, and laid their garlands round the bust. More- 
over, Mademoiselle Fanier having kissed it in a moment of 
ecstasy, all the others followed her example. This long cere- 
mony being over, the curtain again dropped, and when it rose 
for Naniney one of M. de Voltaire's comedies, the bust was 
seen on the right-hand side of the stage, where it remained 
during the whole play. 

^' Nanine finished, comes a new hurley-burley — a new trial 
for the modesty of our philosopher ! He had got into his car- 
riage, but the people would not let him go. They threw 
themselves on the horses ; they kissed them ; some young 
poets even cried to unyoke the animals, and draw the modern 
Apollo home with their own arms ; but unfortunately there 
were not enthusiasts enough to volunteer this service, and he 
was at length allowed to depart, not without vivats, which he 
might have heard on the Pont Royal, or even in his own 
house. 

'' M. de Voltaire wept anew on reaching home, and modestly 
protested, that if he had known the people were to play so 
many fooleries, he would not have gone.'^ 

He did not long survive this farce ; for having overexcited 
himself by receiving visits, and exhausted his spirits to supply 
a perpetual fund of conversation, he was seized with a spitting 
of blood; and afterwards becoming restless in the night-time, 
he had recourse to soporific medicine, of which he one night 
took so large a dose that he slept thirty-six hours, and expired 
a very short time after awaking. The Marquis de Vilette, 



324 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

with whom he resided at Paris, had sent for the rector of St. 
Sulpice when he perceived his end approaching ; and of this 
interview various and very contradictory accounts have been 
published ; but it is certain that he died without the rites of 
the church ; and being refused Christian burial, was secretly 
interred at a Benedictine abbey between Nogent and Troyes, 
whence his remains were removed in 1791 by order of the 
National Assembly, and interred in St. Genevieve. 

Glance we now for a moment at the works of Voltaire. The 
national enthusiasm which decreed him, as he descended to the 
tomb, such a triumph as might have honored a benefactor of 
his race, gave place to doubt and disputation as to his merits ; 
and now enough of time has elapsed for us to consider the 
judgment of posterity as pronounced. In tragedy, he is 
admitted to rank after Corneille and Racine. In (Edipej and 
other early productions of this kind, he showed a spirit of 
obedience to received ideas and models. In Zaire ^ which is 
his master-piece, there is neither the perfect versification of 
Racine nor the lofty conception of Corneille ; but a warmth of 
passion, an enthusiasm of feeling, and a gracefulness of ex- 
pression which fascinates and subdues. In his later dramas he 
assumes the prerogative of instructing as well as moving his au- 
dience ; and being now somewhat more than a poet, would ren- 
der his plays subservient to the same ends as all his other works. 
Hence the declamation which mars some of his best scenes. 

It is as an epic poet that Voltaire has least sustained his 
renown. In vain he flattered himself that he could give 
France a heroic poem. It was a thing unsuitable to his genius, 
and still more to the character of his age. The machinery, 
consisting of personifications of such abstractions as Discord, 
Silence, and the Soul of Louis XI., is tame in the extreme, 
and the want of poetic illusion is severely felt. Nevertheless, 
the Henriade has unquestionably some great beauties : its 
poetry is not epic, but it is sometimes lofty and pathetic. 



VOLTAIRE. 325 

The merit of Voltaire's fugitive pieces has rarely been dis- 
puted. One of their principal attractions is the insight they 
give into the thoughts and feelings of the author. One can 
follow here the progress of the author's mind from childhood 
to old age — his muse now celebrating the light and voluptuous 
enjoyments of his youth^ the pleasures of friendship, the suc- 
cess of self-intererst ; afterwards, it has conversed with science, 
and enlivened it; at a later date, it is in correspondence with 
kings, and lends to flattery the mask of familiarity ; then it 
describes the luxury of retirement, liberty, and the decline of 
life ; and finally, when old age has certainly arrived, it ex- 
presses that vacillation of principle, that uncertainty of opinion, 
that carelessness with respect to all that is most important to 
man, and that restlessness of feeling which age had not been 
able to overcome. His poetry, especially that of his later 
years, is by no means so disgraceful to the author as the wit- 
ticisms in prose, the clandestine brochures consisting of tales, 
romances, dialogues, and pasquinades, which his friends eagerly 
sought for, and which he was always ready to furnish. These 
are, with little exception, totally unworthy of an honorable man. 

It was scarcely possible for a man of so little reflection and 
so little patience for investigation to attain the true character 
of a historian. His history of Charles XII., however, which 
was his first essay, was successful, and deserved to be so ; the 
reason being, that he chose for his hero the most romantic and 
the most adventurous of sovereigns, to describe whom there 
was more need of rapid narrative and brilliant coloring than 
profound knowledge and a just appreciation of human nature. 
There were no great conceptions to judge of, or secret motives 
to unravel, for Charles XII. was all in the facts of his history. 
To depict the reign of Louis XIV. was a much more arduous 
undertaking ; and notwithstanding its eclat, this work is far 
from afi'ording the same interest as the history of the king of 
Sweden. The more a nation becomes civilized, the more its 



326 TKENCH LITERATURE. 

history loses the striking and picturesque forms of the older 
times, and the task of the historian becomes more diflficult. 
We require him to be impartial, and then we blame him for 
the want of warmth and interest ; we want details respecting 
commerce, the arts, the spirit of the government, and then we 
complain that the narration of facts is buried under philo- 
sophical dissertations. The elder historians had none of these 
trammels : they wrote with all their prejudices, and never 
dreamed of impartiality; they related the victories of their 
country without thinking it necessary to unfold the history of 
the vanquished ; and it was left* to the reader to judge of the 
value that ought to be attached to the narrative, and the con- 
fidence that was due to the narrator. It was Voltaire that 
gave the first example of the new mode of writing history : he 
sought not only to present a picture, but a series of researches 
destined to instruct the memory and exercise the judgment. 
After him the English historians, imitating his mode, sur- 
passed him in erudition and philosophic impartiality. Still 
later, his own countrymen have carried this species of writing 
to a high degree of perfection ; but in admitting their supe- 
riority, it would be unfair to forget what they owe to his 
example. The faults which have been found in L^ Histoire 
du Steele de Louis XIV. belong also to L'Ussai sur les Mmurs 
des Nations ; and the latter work has a yet deeper stain. We 
find in it throughout the traces of that hatred of religion which 
Voltaire unblushingly adopted in the latter part of his life, 
and which often hurried him into offences against both good 
taste and good faith. The style, however, is easy and pleas- 
ing ; the facts well arranged ; the pictures of some eras, and 
the portraits of some great men, traced with energy and vivacity. 
As a literary critic, Voltaire was long reverted to as the 
great authority ; but since a more enlightened mode has been 
cultivated by Villemain and others in the present age, Vol- 
taire's is seen to be narrow and partial ; too much occupied 



VOLTAIRE. 827 

witli matters of style and conventional usage ; too little appre- 
ciating the spirit and design of the various authors on whose 
works he passes judgment. 

It remains to say something of Voltaire's opinions with 
reference to religion, morality, and civil government. Some 
have attributed to him a serious design of overturning these 
three great bases of the honor and happiness of society. But 
whoever would discover in his works anything like a system 
of philosophy, would have a good deal of trouble, for nothing 
could be further from the ideas we form of a philosopher than 
the genius of Voltaire. That he had a design to amuse his 
age, to exercise an influence over it, and to avenge himself of 
his enemies, is obvious enough. He lived at a time when 
morals were depraved, at least in the higher classes of society; 
and he showed no respect for morality. Envy and hatred 
employed against him the weapons of religion, which was not 
respected even by its own partisans, and he viewed it only as 
an instrument of persecution. His country had a government 
which commanded no esteem, and did nothing to obtain it, 
and he assumed the attitude of independence and opposition. 
Such seem to have been the true sources of those opinions 
which he continually promulgated, without anticipating the 
consequences to which they might lead. It is easy to see how 
they arose, but impossible to excuse them. 

Doubtless, Voltaire was naturally gifted with astonishing 
talents ; doubtless, his power of mind was not purely the 
result of education or of circumstances : but take his life and 
his writings together, and it is obvious that the employment 
of his faculties was continually directed by the opinions of the 
times, and that the desire of popularity was the ruling motive 
throughout the whole of his course. There was a tacit contract 
between him and the public, which obliged him to serve it, in 
order to reign over it. The character of his earlier writings 
shows that he did not bring into the world a very independent 



328 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

spirit ; they display that lightness and frivolity for which his 
contemporaries were so remarkable^ with the submission of a 
courtier for every kind of authority. But when the young 
author, intoxicated with the plaudits of the theatre, and still 
more with the flattering familiarity of the nobility, saw that 
he had imposed upon himself unnecessary restraints, and that 
the more he sported with everything, the better he succeeded 
in pleasing ; then he lost by degrees the reserve which he had 
at first maintained, and ventured to speak of everything with 
irreverence. Meanwhile, his success increasing, and his im- 
portance growing continually, everything encouraged him to 
imbue his works with that spirit which found so general a 
welcome in its more private manifestations. In vain the 
authority of the civil government endeavored to arrest the im- 
pulse which was gaining strength from day to day ; in vain 
this expounder and director of the public mind was imprisoned 
and exiled. He who attacks what every one respects, may be 
punished, and with universal approbation ; but he who announces 
opinions which are generally entertained, or at least towards 
which every one is beginning to lean, finds support on every 
hand. Even those who sway the authority, and are obliged 
to punish him, think in some measure as he does, and some 
among them will be found to protect him. It was thus that 
Voltaire was only exasperated by exile, and by the condemna- 
tion of his books, and that he became a power whose influence 
was continually on the increase. The further he advanced in 
his career, and the more audaciously he propagated his views 
in opposition to religion and government, the more he was 
rewarded with the renown which he sought. Monarchs became 
his friends, and almost his flatterers. Opposition only increased 
his energy, and often made him forget moderation and good 
taste. Such was the career which conducted him to that old 
age which might have been so honorable, encircled as he was 
with glory ; a king in the realm of literature, which itself had 



VOLTAIRE. 829 

taken the highest rank among all the objects of attention 
among men. Still he was but a constitutional sovereign, and 
Ferney the council-hall of sceptics. It was only on the brink 
of the tomb; that, seated on a mount of slowly accumulated 
popularity, the hitherto limited monarch became absolute ; 
and while the old man shook his hoary locks in defiance of the 
Deity, before whom he was so soon to appear, the vivats which 
resounded at his coronation announced that the people had 
surrendered to their idol the last treasure of a nation — a sense 
of shame. 

Yet frequently in the midst of this intoxication, Voltaire 
had his misgivings ; sometimes he would have resisted the im- 
pulse which he had at once received and imparted. In his 
later works, in the midst of conflicting opinions and contra- 
dictory assertions, there are here and there traces of regret, 
and of a just appreciation of the unhappy spirit which was 
gaining ground in his country. He alone could have some- 
what retarded the course of opinion, which was hurrying on 
towards devastation and ruin ; but he was too thoughtless, too 
inconstant, too fond of praise and of fashion, to offer it any 
effectual resistance. 



XXI.— THE SCEPTICAL AND REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT 
TRIUMPHANT. 

THE ENCYCLOPEDISTS — THEIR TENETS EXPOUNDED BY CONDILLAC — APPLICA- 
TION OF THEIR PHILOSOPHY IN DIFFERENT DEPARTMENTS OF LITERATURE 
D'ALEMBERT — DIDEROT — HELVETIUS — MABLY VAUVENARGUE— BONNET 

— J. J. Rousseau's life and works — buffon — marmontel — la harpe— 

HISTORY — ELOQUENCE OP THE PULPIT AND BAR — PASTORAL TALES AND 
FABLES — THE REVOLUTION — POETRY OF ANDRE CHENIER. 

The names of Voltaire and Montesquieu eclipse all others 
in the first half of the eighteenth century ; but the influence 

28* 



830 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

of Voltaire was by far the most immediate and extensive. His 
talent seemed to correspond with every phase of the national 
mind, to answer all its longings ; and, accordingly, he kept it 
constantly occupied with his own effusions. The few other 
writers whose names were heard, engaged but a part of the 
public, those of one opinion or one coterie; while Voltaire 
fascinated all. But after he had reached the zenith of his 
glory — that is, about the middle of the century — there 
appeared in France a display of various talent, evoked by his 
example and trained by his instructions, yet boasting an inde- 
pendent existence, and displaying a character in which Vol- 
taire would not fully have recognised that either of his per- 
sonal opinions or the impulse of his writings. In the works 
of these men was consummated the literary revolution of 
which we have marked the beginnings: a revolution more 
striking than any, perhaps, that any country has witnessed in 
the same space of time. It was the reaction of freedom too 
long repressed ; and one expects little moderation from a slave 
who has just broken his chains. 

It was no longer a few eminent men that surrendered them- 
selves boldly to the sceptical philosophy which is the grand 
characteristic of the eighteenth century; writers of inferior 
note followed in the same path ; the new opinions took entire 
possession of the whole of the literature, and by this means 
subjugated France, and, as is too well known, co-operated with 
the state of morals and of government to bring about a fearful 
revolution. 

The influence of the minister. Cardinal Fleury, contributed 
in some degree to arrest this movement for a time. The old 
man had talent enough to maintain tranquillity while he lived; 
but he had neither strength nor foresight to give permanence 
to his policy. As soon as he was gone, the new opinions ob- 
tained absolute empire. 

The whole strength of the literature of this age being 



ENCYCLOPEDISTS. 331 

directed towards tlie same end — namely, the subversion of the 
national institutions, and especially of the national religion — 
formed, for the first time, a homogeneous body of Science, 
Literature, and the Arts, and a compact phalanx of all writers 
under the common name of philosophers. There existed 
among these men an esprit de corps, notwithstanding a good 
deal of diversity, and even some discord. The women had j 
their share in the maintenance of this league. The salons of 
Mesdames Geoffrin, Du Defant, and De I'Espinasse, were its 
favorite resorts; but the great rendezvous was that of the 
Baron d'Holbach, whence, as from a centre, its doctrines 
spread far and wide, blasting, like the malaria, whatever it met 
with on its way that had any connexion with religion, morals, 
or venerable social customs. Besides Voltaire, who presided 
over this coterie more in spirit than by his bodily presence, the 
daily company included Diderot, an enthusiast by nature, a 
cynic and sophist by profession ; D' Alembert, a genius of the 
first order in mathematics, and distinguished also, though in a 
less degree, in literature ; the malicious Marmontel ] the phi- 
losopher Helvetius ; Eaynal, the furious enemy of all modern 
institutions; the would-be sentimentalist Grimm; and the 
Baron d'Holbach himself, the host of La Raison Encydo- 
pedique. Secondary parts were sustained by affiliated mem- 
bers, such as Hume, Gibbon, Bolingbroke, Walpole, and 
others. Their plan was to write a book which would, in some 
sense, supersede all others, itself forming a library containing 
the most recent discoveries in philosophy^ and the best expla- 
nations and details on every topic, literary and scientific. 

The depositaries of power perceived with distrust the cha- 
racter and tendency of the philosophers. They were not aware 
that the real evil was in the nation ; and they thought to sup- 
ply a remedy by checking the outward symptoms of its mani- 
festation. When, therefore, they saw the philosophical coterie 
projecting the great enterprise of an encyclopaedia as an im- 



332 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

mense vehicle for the development of their opinions, the govern- 
ment took the alarm. The parliament and the clergy pro- 
nounced its condemnation, and succeeded so far, that the 
editors were obliged to continue it clandestinely. The conse- 
quence was a literary war, which raged furiously; and the 
obstacles thrown in the way of the publication in part diverted 
it from its first destination, rendering it a controversial work, 
instead of an embodiment of the knowledge of the age. Doubt- 
less, this philosophy did carry presages of disorder and destruc- 
tion ; but these were not the most alarming, or most irremedia- 
ble symptoms. An indolent and selfish monarch, abandoned 
to pleasure with low courtesans ; nobles, who professed immo- 
rality without shame ; ministers, who occupied themselves 
only with intrigues; generals, whose military-school had been 
the salons; every right disputed, and therefore every duty 
disputable : here, indeed, were more dreadful earnests of a 
revolution than any set of haughty and audacious philoso- 
phers ; and the war of the seven years hastened the catastrophe 
more than the Encyclopedie. 

To explain more distinctly the philosophy which was the 
distinguishing characteristic of the eighteenth century. There 
are two modes of investigating metaphysical science — the one 
assumes the soul of man as the starting-point, examines its 
faculties, its operations, the nature of its activities, the mode 
of its existence. It will be remembered that such was the 
philosophy of Descartes, and after him of all the eminent 
thinkers of the seventeenth century; and that this route con 
ducted them to the noblest of sciences — that of religion and 
moral obligation; but it never led them to the relations of 
this moral and intellectual being with the external world, oi 
explained the influences received through the organs of sense. 
These philosophers, not finding anything in the organization 
of the senses to resolve the problem of man's moral nature, 
paid little attention to the direct action of external influences, 



ENCYCLOPEDISTS. 333 

and gave no satisfactory account of the mutual relations exist- 
ing between the physical and the intellectual part of human 
nature. 

The men of the eighteenth century had become tired of fol- 
lowing out the sublimities and abstractions of the Cartesians, 
and they took an opposite course. They assumed the reality 
of external objects as their starting-point, studied their influ- 
ence on the senses, examined the sensations thus produced 
with their immediate results, and groped their way as they 
could in this direction, endeavoring to reach that central point 
which constitutes the human self. They established as the 
basis of metaphysics, that it was useless to study the mind, 
because they did not know its nature ; they made of it a sort 
of vital principle — a neutral or passive faculty, attached by 
unknown bonds to a certain collection of matter, and they gave 
all their attention to the relations between man and external 
objects, or the result of his physical organization. This school 
of metaphysics was of course always gravitating lower and 
lower towards the earth, till it had denied the existence of the 
soul, as the Cartesian philosophy had done that of external 
objects. Locke, it may be remembered, was the first to open 
up this path by maintaining that all ideas are primarily derived 
from without through the organs of sense. Hume undertook 
thence to prove that there exist no principles of certain know- 
ledge. He saw nothing to determine the succession of the 
mind's impressions; denied, therefore, that there was any such 
thing as cause and effect; and inferred that sensation no more 
proved the reality of the external world than of the internal. 
He went no further, being content to repose in this ruin of 
the human intelligence. But his reasoning gave rise to that 
school of Scotch philosophy, which concluded that since the 
premises of Locke had led to an absurdity, they must be wrong, 
and that it was needful, therefore, to construct a system, which 
did not proceed on the inert and passive nature of the soul 



334 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

but acknowledged its peculiar properties and modes of opera- 
tion. About the same time^ German philosophy labored to 
construct the edifice which had crumbled to pieces before the 
severe reasonings of Hume. But while the neighboring na- 
tions thus became the heirs of the labors of Descartes in high 
philosophy, his own countrymen turned from them with dis- 
dain, and followed with confidence the path opened by the 
science of sensation, nor stopped short of the grossest mate- 
rialism and positive atheism. Such were the principles of the 
Encydopediej explicitly professed in the preliminary discourse. 
They were not, however, fully developed or clearly explained 
in this work, but in the writings of Condillac (1715-1780), 
the head of this school of philosophy. 

Condillac^s first work, L^Ussai sur V Origine des Connais- 
sances Humalnes (1746), contains the germ of all that he 
afterwards published. In the TraitS des Sensations, he sup* 
posed a statue endowed successively with all the senses, in 
order to show in what manner ideas had their origin. He 
endeavored sincerely, but in vain, to derive the notion of duty 
from sensation ; and expert as he was in logic, he could not 
conceal from the most inexperienced eyes the great gulf which 
his theory left between these two terms. 

Few writers have enjoyed more success. He brought the 
science of thought within reach of the vulgar, by stripping it 
of everything elevated or complicated ; and every one was sur- 
prised and delighted to find that philosophy was so easy a 
thing. It was not perceived that he had lowered his subject, 
instead of raising his disciples to the comprehension of it. 

This new philosophy of mind gave rise to new modes of in- 
vestigation in almost every department of knowledge, and sepa- 
rated France at once from the foreign schools of the moderns 
and those of antiquity. 

The exact and the natural sciences received a powerful im- 



CONDILLAC. ^ 335 

pulse, and made rapid progress. But the principles of reli- 
gion, morals, politics, eloquence, poetry, and the fine arts, 
depending as they do on faculties essentially immaterial, could 
hardly find an existence under the condition of being solely 
derived by inductions drawn from the attributes of external 
objects. Having determined not to establish morality on any 
innate principles of the soul, these philosophers founded it on 
a fact common to all animated nature — the necessity of being 
and well-being, whence arises the feeling of self-interest. As 
for religion, nothing in the physical circumstances of man could 
afibrd any direct clue to it. It was impossible to connect it by 
any line of argument with the ideas derived from sensation, 
and it was therefore denied a place in their system. Already 
had deism rejected the evidence of a divine revelation, and 
abjured the recollections of Christianity, with the peculiar 
duties arising out of them. Now atheism raised a more auda- 
cious front, and proclaimed that all religious sentiment was 
but the reverie of a disordered mind. The works in which 
this opinion is most expressly announced, date from the period 
of the Encyclopedie. True, it was not very extensively adopted 
in its positive form, for impiety more usually wrapped itself in 
vague incredulity than in dogmatic atheism ; yet the atheistic 
writers did abundance of harm, much more than is generally 
imagined. They contributed powerfully to demoralize the 
lower classes of the people ; and the effect was all the greater, 
because extracts from their works were inserted in a number 
of infamously immoral productions, which were circulated 
clandestinely, and poisoned the minds of the masses; obscenity 
thus borrowing a philosophic coloring, and mingling its turpi- 
tudes with the principles of irreligion. 

Political government could now no longer rest on historical 
traditions, on positive rights, on ancient laws, or the customs 
of nations ) such considerations furnished no basis in the eyes 
of a precise and universal science. Society was regarded as a 



336 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

collection of individuals united for the mutual defence of their 
interests ; and the whole theory of government was to rest on 
this primary fact. The constitution of a people was the en- 
semble of its customs^ its laws, and all its external and internal 
circumstances, in the same way that the constitution of an 
individual is made up of all the circumstances which consti- 
tute his life. The manner in which this word was insensibly 
diverted from its original acceptation proves more than any 
details what was the course of reasoning with reference to poli- 
tical government. 

A new science now originated, under the name of Politici^l 
Economy. The philosophers inquired what was the source of 
the wealth of citizens and communities, and how the life of a 
people and its greater or less prosperity depend on the private 
and commercial relations of individuals and of the whole 
country. The theory of this circulation of public and private 
wealth was ingeniously and perspicuously established, and it 
obtained immense popularity. Almost all Europe welcomed 
with enthusiasm the systems of public prosperity propounded 
by the economists ; and monarchs did honor to these new legis- 
lators. They were really persuaded that these friends of man- 
kind would subjugate both rulers and people by the power of 
reason, and induce them, by an enlightened calculation of their 
own interests, to maintain the duties of their respective posi- 
tions, with justice on the one hand, and subordination on the 
other. The calculations were all scientific, and no account was 
made of the diversity of human opinion, or the perversity of 
human passion. 

Language and grammar were still more boldly dealt with. 
The philosophers, especially Condillac and Dnclos, having con- 
cluded that thought is the faithful image of external objects, 
would have language a similarly exact transcript of thought, 
and every word the invariable expression of the same idea. 
33ut as language had been gradually formed by the habits and 



CONDILLAC — d'ALEMBERT. 337 

necessities of men^ and not originally constructed on philoso- 
phical principles, it was deemed in want of entire remodelling. 
It was proclaimed that a perfect idiom would be a collection 
of signs, each invariably attached to the same idea, and bound 
to every other by invariable relations. Algebra was declared 
to be the true model of all language ; there was to be no ac- 
count made of impressions differing in different individuals, 
or at different times ; and no provision for a flexibility which 
eould accommodate speech to the feelings of the speaker. 
Ideas, according to this theory, were precisely the same in all 
minds, and it was a matter of indifference that men enter- 
tained them differently. 

Poetry and eloquence of course found little quarter from 
such theorists. 

Having thus briefly explained the principles generally 
adopted about the middle of the eighteenth century, and their 
application to the different branches of human knowledge 
treated in the Encydop^diej return we to the leading authors 
of this great work. 

D'Ali^mbert had gained, as we have said, deserved renown 
by his mathematical works ; and with this he would doubtless 
have been content, had he lived in any other age ) but the de- 
sire of proving himself a universal genius, of which Voltaire had 
set the example, made him a litterateur, and a somewhat frigid 
one. He is now known chiefly as the author of the Discours 
PrSUminavre (1751) of the Encyclopediey which is ranked 
among the chefs-d'oeuvre of the age. Here the author traces 
the genealogical order of the various branches of human 
knowledge, marks out the limits of each and its connexion 
with the rest, with the characters which distinguish them in 
our minds ; he thus raises the encyclopedic tree of the sciences 
distinct from the historic order of their development; after 
which he details the history of intellectual culture in Europe 
29 



338 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

from the revival of letters. This discourse is written in a 
severe and simple style, adhering closely to the language proper 
to philosophy, yet rendering clear and palpable the most 
abstract ideas. 

If D'Alembert was somewhat stiff in literature, Diderot 
(1714-1784) was quite the reverse. He had an ardent and 
irregular sort of mind, like a fire without fuel. The talent of 
which he gave unquestionable indications had never received 
any particular application. If he had devoted himself to any 
one sphere, instead of wandering about in the chaos of contra- 
dictory opinions which rose and perished around him, he might 
have left a lasting reputation, and posterity, instead of merely 
repeating his name, would have spoken of his works. He 
tried to remodel the drama, protested against the established 
rules, and demanded a more exact imitation of nature ; but 
the attempt to become the chief of a new dramatic school led 
him further from nature than those whom he opposed. He 
wrote upon morals, as in his Essai sur le Merite et la Yertu ; 
and while showing that he was capable of some warmth of 
feeling and elevation of thought, he made an obscure and inco- 
herent melange of this animated tone with the analytic and de- 
structive philosophy of his school. His romances also exhibit 
a burlesque combination of the love of virtue with shameful 
cynicism, and low vulgar language. In his Lettres sur les 
Aveugles, he maintains that all our moral ideas are produced 
by our physical organization. In the Supplement an Voyage 
de Bougainville y he proscribes marriage, and invites social 
man to assume the freedom of the brute creation. On the 
whole, Diderot may be regarded as a writer injurious at once 
to literature and to morals. 

The most faithful disciple of the philosophy of this age was 
Helvetius (1715-1771), known chiefly by his work De 



HELYETIUS. S39 

V Esprit J of wUcli tlie object is to prove tliat physical sensi- 
bility is the origin of all our thoughts. Of all the writers who 
entertained this opinion^ none has presented it in so gross a 
manner. He maintains, as a necessary consequence, that self- 
interest is the principle of all our judgments and all our 
actions ; that the intellectual powers are the same among all 
men equally well organized j and that the passions are the only 
mode of all development, so that to educate a man is to culti- 
vate his passions. The work was an attempt to combine into 
a system the principles which he heard professed around him, 
but his talents were not equal to the task. It would seem 
that he had been in the habit of hearing, from day to day, 
contradictory opinions lightly hazarded without object or con- 
sistency, though tending always in the same direction. L^ Es- 
prit is a book composed of such dialogues, and it would seem 
that the friends of Helvetius had no idea of any reputation 
arising from the work of their disciple; but a fruitless perse- 
cution gave it unexpected celebrity. It was condemned at 
once by the Sorbonne, the pope, and the parliament. It was 
burned by the hands of the hangman, and the author was com- 
pelled to retract it ; after which he travelled in England and 
Germany, and wrote no more books. 

The philosophers have been represented by the most eminent 
French writers, as generally disinterested and really desirous 
of the weal of their country and of the human speeies. 
Granted that they did not sacrifice their opinions to the lust 
of gain, and that they showed themselves indifferent to the 
favor of princes, it is not denied that they were accessible to 
the seductions of vanity, and that their hearts were not closed 
against motives of jealousy and hatred. They seem, in short, 
to have been men of passion rather than of self-interest, too 
much so even to enter into harmonious co-operation among 
themselves, or form anything like a sect having a definite 
object and recognised principles. Their Encydo-pidie was an 



B40 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

immense depot, not only of the doctrines, but of the passions of 
the eighteenth century, and they themselves were but the mouth- 
pieces of a reckless people, avenging itself of the bonds in 
which it had been held. Perhaps there never was a time when 
books were more intensely the transcript of the national feel- 
ing, and in which authors obeyed rather than directed the im- 
pulses that surrounded them. 

Meanwhile, there were some writers who held themselves 
aloof from this school of philosophy, and disapproved of it, but 
who yet drank deeply into the spirit of the times. 

The Abbe Mably, for instance, refused to identify himself 
with the Encyclopedists ; but though pursuing apparently a 
different course, his labors tended to a similar end. He de- 
voted his life, and that with more industry and seriousness 
than most of his contemporaries, to study the relations of 
politics and morals with public order. In his Principes de 
3IoraIe (1774), he investigates the moral constitution of 
man ; seeks to arrive at the true principle of morality, whicL, 
according to him, is an enlightened desire of happiness ; an(J 
gives precepts for the best mode of strengthening this princi- 
ple in the human heart. His object in the Entretiens de 
Phocion, is to determine the object and lay the basis of 
healthy policy, which appears to him to be founded upon 
morality. Far from applauding, he condemned and abhorred 
the new ideas, the frivolous character, the depraved manners 
of his compatriots, nor had he much greater esteem for any- 
thing else that was either modern or French. Neither the 
religion, the government, nor the annals of his country com- 
manded his admiration ; ancient Greece and Rome were his 
only models. This spirit is especially displayed in his Obser- 
vations sitr V Ilistoire de France, in which he refuses to see 
anything to admire in the earlier days of France, any more 
than in the present. 



MABLY — YAUVExNARGUE. 841 

It was tlius tliat wliile the Encyclopedists were seeking pri- 
mary and unheard-of principles as the foundation of a new 
political economy, Mably and others recommended forms which 
were quite as impracticable : not that the abbe desired European 
constitutions to be remodelled after the ancient fashions ; he 
did not deem modern nations fit for the experiment. He thus, 
without being aware of it, was making common cause with 
those he despised, in hurrying the institutions of the country 
to destruction, and loosening the already slender bonds which 
united the members of an old community. 

The Marquis de Vauvenargue was a man of a different 
spirit. He had learned in the school of Pascal to fathom the 
depths of the human heart ; in that of Fenelon, to instruct 
and entourage it ; his admiration for the writers of the pre- 
ceding age preserving him from many of the errors that were 
so rife around him. But while Vauvenargue appreciated with 
Pascal and Bossuet the weakness of human nature, he had no 
such firm persuasion of the power of religion to prove its 
remedy; he turned, accordingly, to whatever is noble and 
elevated in man's nature, independent of a positive creed ; he 
had hope in the human heart from its own resources. Such is 
the spirit of his Introduction a la Connaissance de V Esprit 
Humain (1746). ^' La Vertu,^' says he, ^' n'est pas tant 
Fadhesion k une loi qu'une inclination genereuse, une certaine 
bonte et vigueur de Tame ; la vertu est un amour. Les prin- 
cipes de la vertu sont dans la nature, non dans la coutume ni 
dans la raison. Consideree dans son essence, la vertu est le 
sacrifice de I'interet particulier a I'interet general ; jamais ce 
dernier interet ne saurait etre servi par les vices ; jamais non 
plus la vertu n^aboutit au mal de celui qui la pratique. La 
vertu consiste dans Faction, que rien supplie, dont rien ne 
dispense. L'action n'aurait point lieu sans les passions. La 

plus feconde de toutes, la plus analogue h la vertu, e'est 

29 -* 



342 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Famour de la gloire. C'est cet amour, et non la pensee de la 
mort, qu'il faut proposer h rhomme : la pensee de la mort fait 
oublier de vivre." Yet more than once there transpires aa 
agonizing peradventure ; the candor of the author would not 
suppress it : ^^ Si pourtant, comme il est possible, la religion 
etait vraie, tout cet edifice ebranle demanderait a grands cris 
d'autres bases/' A fearful if, it must be admitted. 

We turn aside for a moment to notice a metaphysician of 
this school, who affords a striking example of the close 
connexion between literature and moral character. A little 
people living on the French frontier, speaking the same lan- 
guage, reading the same books, and maintaining daily inter- 
course with its literary metropolis, had the same thirst for 
knowledge, the same zeal for the progress of the humap mind, 
the same taste for the exact and natural sciences. All, in short, 
that the eighteenth century had impressed upon France, was 
felt with at least as much interest in the republic of Geneva. 
But her morality was strict; religion was respected; the 
operation of the laws was constant and regular ; the power of 
hereditary custom was strong ; and the intellectual movement 
did not here imbue society with the spirit of doubt and irrev- 
erence ; neither did .it attempt to sever the bonds of civil 
society. Charles Bonnet (1720-1793), a Genevese of dis- 
tinguished family, had cultivated natural history in his earlier 
days J but having injured his sight by the constant use of the 
microscope, he abandoned the observation of insects and plants 
for the analysis of the human mind. He set out from the 
same point as Condillac. He, too, in his Essai Analyti^ue 
snr les FacuMs de VAme (1760), had supposed man as a 
statue, gifted with an unknown principle, which he concluded 
to possess no peculiar properties, but whose faculties were 
originated and developed by the action of external objects. 
Bonnet brought more impartiality into the process of this 



BONNET J. J. ROUSSEAU. S43 

creation than any otlier metaplijsician, and avoided many 
errors of detail wliicli Condillac had committed. But here 
was the great difference : he labored all his life to reconcile 
this theory with the moral nature of man and his religious 
obligations. His own inward persuasion, his habits, the circle 
in which he lived, kept him firmly attached to these ; and in 
his efforts to reconcile them with his metaphysical speculations, 
we see better, perhaps, than anywhere else, the impossibility 
of discovering the duties and destinies of man through the 
teaching of the senses. Bonnet, not doubting the divine 
origin of the soul, appears in one of his later works to inti- 
mate that all his researches applied not to that immaterial 
principle, but to a certain physical soul of delicate, mysterious, 
and subtle formation, by the intervention of which the soul, 
properly so called, communicates with the body. In his Palin- 
genhie, he endeavors to establish the necessity of a future 
state, not only for the human race, but for the lower animals. 

Another writer, who marched under none of the recognised 
banners of the day, was Jean Jacques Rousseau, of whom 
it has been said, that if there was a writer of this age who 
enjoyed an influence peculiar to himself, not yielding to the 
common movement of the time, it was he. 

There need be no scruple in characterizing him as one of the 
most visionary of mortals ; driven by his circumstances to seek 
virtue and happiness in a world of his own imagining, and 
contriving, as it would seem, to derive the most exquisite 
enjoyment from living thus in thought away from the realities 
of his own life. Without family, without friends, without 
home, wandering from place to place, from one condition in 
life to another, he conceived a species of revolt against society, 
and cherished an inward pride which sometimes became a 
perfect delirium, with a feeling of bitterness against those 
civil organizations in which himself could never find a suitable 



344 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

place. The Encyclopedists liad flattered themselves that they 
had tuned the opinion of all Europe to their philosophical 
strain, when suddenly they heard his discordant note. He 
combated their atheism, and materialism, and contempt for 
moral virtue, for pure deism was his creed. He believed in a 
Supreme Being, a future state, and the excellence of virtue ; 
but denying all revealed religion, he would have man advance 
in the paths of virtue freely, proudly, and independently, from 
love of the thing itself, and not from any sense of duty or 
obligation. 

Rousseau was somewhat late in making his debut as an 
author. He was about thirty-eight years of age when his eye 
was caught by the advertisement of a prize offered by the 
Academy of Dijon for the best essay in answer to the question : 
^^ Has the progress of arts and sciences tended to the corrup- 
tion or the purification of morals T' The words, as he him- 
self declares, touched a chord that awaked a power latent in his 
heart, undreamed of before. The picture of society, such as 
he knew it, in the city which, of all others, boasted the greatest 
advancement in the cultivation of the arts and sciences, 
unrolled itself as a scroll before him, blotted and disfigured. 
And beside it his imagination placed a picture of pristine 
innocence — of man enjoying the full development of his phy- 
sical powers, living for each day as it rose, undisturbed by 
care, by intellectual speculations, by vanity, by emulation — 
man free from the control of opinion and the tyranny of fac- 
titious desires. Words to describe such a condition poured 
into his mind, clustered on his lips, and demanded a voice. 
Much had escaped ere he could transfer his thoughts to paper, 
bnt enough remained to win for him the reputation of being 
one of the most eloquent authors that ever lived. The public 
was delighted with this fascinating representation of the evils 
of civilization, and the blessedness of a state of pure nature. 
The freshness and energy of his style, the earnestness with 



J. J. ROUSSEAU. 345 

wliich he pursued his argument^ served instead of sound 
reason ; and the opponents of his views were sufficiently in the 
wrong to make him appear absolutely right. A new intel- 
lectual world opened before him, and the Academy of Dijon 
proposing another question, afforded the opportunity of further 
asserting the superiority of the natural man over the nurslings 
of civilization. He wrote, in short, the romance of nature 
and the caricature of society. Property, distinction of ranks, 
mutual duties, the obligations of labor, were boldly attacked ; 
and seeking in imagination a time in which man had no such 
evils to fear, he went back through all the degrees of civilization 
to search out the principles which first imposed on the human 
species the desire and the necessity of living in society. In 
a future work, The Social Contract, he traced the principles 
of government and laws in the nature of man, and endeavored 
to show the end which they proposed to themselves by living 
in communities, and the best means of attaining to this end. 

But the two most notable works of Rousseau are his Julie, 
or Nouvelle Helo'ise, and Emile. The former is a kind of 
romance, owing its interest entirely to the development of 
character, and not to incident or plot. Its moral object was to 
demonstrate a principle the reverse of that which regulated 
French society in those days. Up to the time of marriage, 
girls were denied the most innocent freedom ; but the mar- 
riage-ceremony was the proclamation of license which no one 
thought of questioning within certain bounds. Eousseau's 
Julie, on the other hand, was a young lady who, by the strictest 
fidelity to the respectable old gentleman to whom she was 
united in wedlock, made the most ample atonement for a pre- 
vious error, and established to the author's satisfaction the 
superior value of conjugal to maidenly virtue, as it is taken 
for granted that both would be too much to expect from human 
nature. We are disgusted to find a writer of our own language 
characterizing this as a work ^^full of noble sentiments and 



846 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

elevated morality ; of true and admirable views of life ; and 
an eloquence burning and absorbing/' 

Emile is a book professedly embodying a system of educa- 
tion in wbicb tlie thougbts wbicb lie scattered elsewhere are 
digested and arranged. The author gives himself an imagi- 
nary pupil, whom he calls Emilius, the representative of that 
life of spontaneous development which was Rousseau's beau 
ideal. The system is that of letting nature perform the 
greater part of the work ; only as Emilius is not to live in a 
savage but in a civilized state, he has to be educated in a pe- 
culiar manner. The savage learns the use of his various 
faculties by feeling the wants which call them into exercise : 
but then his wants are few and simple ; and in order to train 
Emilius, his tutors must produce artificial wants, to elicit the 
higher faculties. The teacher inculcates no precept, prescribes 
no task ; but he is constantly preparing such circumstances to 
surround the pupil as must infallibly guide him to the desired 
point. The education is so far natural, that the pupil is led 
on by his own desires; but it is artificial, inasmuch as these 
desires are artificially awakened. What is called learning, is 
deferred till that comparatively mature age when the boy can 
be made to feel uneasy at the want of it ; but all crowding of 
a child's memory with words which he cannot possibly under- 
stand is expressly prohibited. So also are fables denounced in 
which beasts and birds hold converse, as conveying false im- 
pressions."^ Every occasion of sorrow is to be carefully 
removed or avoided ; the life of youth is to be happy. In 
due time, Emilius learns something of the classics and of 
modern languages; but he is to consider these as trivial 
accomplishments, and to regard the mechanic who pursues a 

* Hence those lines of Cowper ; — 

I will not ask Jean Jacques Rousseau, 
Whether birds can speak or no, &g. 



J. J. ROUSSEAU. 347 

useful calling as superior to a poet or a pliilosoplier. Though 
rich, yet in order to be independent of the freaks of fortune, 
he must learn a trade, and is regularly bound as apprentice to 
a carpenter. Thus he became Eousseau^s ideal of a man; one 
capable of mixing in any society, yet independent of all. 
Such was the man belieyed in at the time of the Revolution, 
which Kousseau foresaw, and which so shortly followed. 

There appears as an episode in this work, the vicar of 
Savoy's confession of faith, which is a declaration of pure 
deism, but levelled especially against the various errors of 
Catholicism. It raised a perfect tempest against the author, 
and that from every quarter. The Koman Catholics, of course, 
were incensed ; the Calvinistic Genevese joined in the abhor- 
rence; and the material philosophers, displeased with Rous- 
seau's advocacy of a future state, took no pains to shelter him. 
The Council of Geneva caused his book to be burned by the 
executioner ; the parliament of Paris threatened him with im- 
prisonment, and he was obliged to flee. While vainly seeking 
shelter in various parts of Switzerland, he wrote his Letters 
from the Mountain, as a sort of defence to the objectionable 
part of his Emile. It displays considerable polemic talent, 
but it only served to increase the storm. Finding safety 
nowhere on the continent, he took refuge in England, where 
he found himself most provokingly in perfect safety — an 
object of pity and ridicule, not of abhorrence and persecution. 
Living in obscurity and neglect — not, however, in want, for 
he was honorably and delicately provided for — ^in a countiy 
whose language he did not understand, he imagined that his 
enemies had entered into a combination to keep him there, and 
thus to gain opportunity for calumniating his character and 
falsifying his writings. It would seem that these thoughts 
fermented in his brain till a high degree of excitement ensued; 
and it was under these circumstances that he prepared those 



348 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Confessions whicli he believed would prove his vindication 
before all the world. 

Nor only in this life. '' Let the trumpet of the last judg- 
ment sound when it will/' says he in the commencement, ^^I 
will present myself before the sovereign Judge with this book 
in my hand, and I will say aloud : ^ Here is what I did, what 
I thought, and what I was/ '' The reader who has heard of 
Rousseau only through writers of a certain school, representing 
him as the enthusiastic lover of virtue for its own sake, " the 
father of the church to come," expects to find a life abounding 
with as much virtue at least as a man may possess without 
Christian principle. No such thing. Here is a life in which 
there is not a single feature of greatness ; and here is a pro- 
clamation of faults — ugly, disagreeable faults — ^just the sort 
that, above all others, we should keep to ourselves ; and yet 
the autobigrapher would almost persuade us he was virtuous, 
while giving the clearest proofs that he was not. There is 
either a dexterous tinselling over of what is wrong, or the 
putting forward of an accounting cause, or an interesting 
repentance, to counterbalance the guilt. And then there is 
in a true and living portraiture such power to establish sym- 
pathies between the writer and the reader, that the latter is in 
danger of pitying and excusing what he ought to abhor. 

'' Who,'' says Barante, '' has not felt affected and delighted 
in reading the animated description of those vague reveries ; 
of those hopes continually disappointed, yet continually rising 
afresh; of those imaginary joys; of those romances of virtue 
and happiness, always belied, yet always renewed; of those 
storms which rose in the depths of the heart — in short, of the 
entire history of this visionary and solitary being ? After 
having thus placed us, by the magic of truth, in his every 
situation, Rousseau makes us sharers in his every thought, 
and, so to speak, in his every action. We fall with him into 
error by an irresistible impuls'^ ; we assume his foolish pride ; 



J. J. ROUSSEAU. 349 

we see nothing but outrage and injustice ; we become the 
enemies of all men, and prefer him to all/^ 

Such is confessedly the fascination of this man for his own 
countrymen ; and perhaps we shall be accused of a most cruel, 
unpoetic virtue, for presenting the reader with the bare facts, 
as stated by the autobiographer, divested of the magic which 
his own pen throws around them. 

According to his own account, J. J. Rousseau was a citizen 
of Geneva, where he was born in the year 1712. His mother 
died at his birth : his infancy was exceedingly delicate, and 
he became the idol of his father, a Geneva watchmaker, to 
whom, as soon as he was able, he used to read while he 
worked. Ecclesiastical history, Moliere, La Bruyere, Ovid^s 
Metamorphoses, and the old ponderous romances, formed his 
early library ; but Plutarch became the favorite. Himself the 
citizen of a republic, Rousseau easily fancied himself a Greek 
or Roman while he read ; and his father gazed with admiring 
horror when he advanced and held his hand over a brasier 
while reading the history of Scsevola. Childhood passed hap- 
pily away, while all caressed and none opposed. But when 
the family circle was broken up, and it became necessary for 
the youth to adopt some mode of earning a livelihood, it was 
another thing. The business of an attorney proved unconge- 
nial in itself, and that of an engraver from the vulgarity and 
violence of the master. Beaten and hard-worked, he became 
idle, timid, and deceitful. The day-dreams founded on the 
books which he stole time to peruse, filled his heart in soli- 
tude ; and while his real life was replete with indignity and 
suffering, he was enterprising, noble, and free in his reveries. 
Having, for the third or fourth time, prolonged his Sunday 
ramble till after the city-gates were shut, and dreading the 
certain punishment which awaited him on the morrow, he ran 
away altogether; turned his steps from his native city, a 
vagrant and a beggar according to the received opinions of 
30 



350 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

society, but in his own eyes a hero in search of adventures. 
He presently fell in with one of those Catholic priests, who, 
living in the vicinity, were ever on the watch to draw Swiss 
heretics into the pale of the church. It was easy to persuade 
the homeless boy to turn the wants of his body to the benefit 
of his soul, by professing himself a candidate for admission 
into the Church of Rome. The cure who began the good 
work, sent him with an introductory letter to a recently con- 
verted lady at Annecy. The Countess de Warens, who had 
thrown herself into the bosom of the church, and under the 
protection of Savoy, to escape from a disagreeable husband, was 
beautiful, benevolent, and, as Rousseau will have it, virtuous 
in heart — that is, we suppose, in imagination, like himself — 
for the facts as stated by him would prove her a perfect Mes- 
salina in a small way. He was sent by her to an institution at 
Turin for the instruction of proselytes, where he was to remain 
till his abjuration, when it was supposed some charitable person 
more wealthy than Madame de Warens would take him by the 
hand. 

Brought up in a Calvinist city, he had a perfect horror of 
popish ceremonies ; yet, believing there was now no escape — 
starvation staring him in the face — he delayed the fatal act, 
but at length yielded ; was formally received into the church, 
and absolved of the crime of heresy by a father inquisitor. 
Twenty francs, collected at the church door, were put into his 
hands ; he was recommended to be faithful to his profession ; 
and being thus dismissed, he found himself alone and friend- 
less in the streets of Turin. Liberty, hope, and the twenty 
francs were very good company for each other, and for him ; 
but when the money was gone, he was obliged to hire himself 
as a servant. He became the attendant of an aged countess, 
who died three months afterwards; and it was during her 
illness that he committed a fault, the memory of which haunted 
all his future days, and caused every suffering of his life to 



J. J. ROUSSEAU. 851 

appear as just retribution. During his mistress's illness, lie 
abstracted a ribbon from her wardrobe, intending it as a 
present to tbe maid-servant. When it was missed, sought for, 
and found on him, he declared he had received it from the 
girl. The two were confronted ; the innocent servant im- 
plored him with tears to retract the falsehood ; but he adhered 
to his story, and was believed. There was reason to fear she 
was driven to want and infamy by this affair. 

When the death of the countess threw Rousseau again upon 
the world, his acquaintance with the Abbe Gaime, whom he 
afterwards immortalized as the vicar of Savoy, introduced him 
to the service of the Count de Gouvon, who, presently discern- 
ing his superiority to the station which he held, treated him 
accordingly, and permitted a young member of the family to 
instruct him in Latin and Italian. But it was impossible for 
Jean Jacques to pursue any career with steadiness. Taking 
a capricious fancy to a merry fellow, who had been his ap- 
prentice-companion in Geneva, and was about to return to 
that city, our hero threw up his situation with a careless show 
of ingratitude that disgusted his patrons, and set out again, a 
wildly happy vagrant, delighted with the prospect of roaming on 
foot among the mountains and valleys of Savoy. His hope of 
obtaining food and shelter by the way was built on a toy 
fountain, which the abbe had given him, and the exhibition 
of which would, he believed, secure hospitality for himself 
and his friend. When the fountain was broken by an acci- 
dent, the two adventurers, instead of breaking their hearts, 
congratulated themselves on the incident, for they were tired 
of carrying it. 

Eousseau's only resource now was to cast himself on tho 
kindness of Madame de Warens, at Annecy, who received 
him with compassion ; and perceiving he had a taste for 
music, placed him under the tuition of the master of the 
cathedral choir. About a year afterwards, the professor quar- 



852 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

relied witli tlie chapter, and determined to abscond witli his 
case of music on the eve of the holy-week, when his services 
would be most needed. Madame' s expostulations proving vain, 
she yielded permission to Rousseau to accompany his flight ; 
but they had only got as far as Lyon, when poor Le Maitre 
fell down in an epileptic fit. A crowd collected; and Rous- 
seau, not knowing what to do, left the helpless musician in 
their hands, scampered back to Annecy, and found to his 
horror that Madame de Warens had left it. He now entered 
upon vagabond-life in earnest, and to the characteristics which 
had already distinguished him, began to add those of a charla- 
tan. At Lausanne, for instance, he made an anagram of his 
name ; and calling himself Vaussore, instead of Rousseau, set 
up as a singing-master, though he scarcely knew anything 
about music by his own confession. But the crowning piece 
of impudence was his composing a cantata, for a full orchestra, 
copying out the different parts, distributing them to the musi- 
cians who were to perform at a private concert, attending the 
brilliant scene in person to explain the style and character of 
his piece, and beating time with a fine roll of paper. When 
the grand crash began, '' never,'^ says Jean Jacques himself, 
^^was such a charivari heard ;'^ and then came the ironical 
compliments and the assurances of a lasting immortality. 
Looking back upon the scene in after-years, he marvels at his 
own audacity, and declares he can explain it only as a temporary 
delirium. The notable achievement rendered the town too hot 
to contain him ; and after various wandering adventures, and 
many privations and sufferings, he again found shelter with 
Madame de Warens, who had invited him to join her at Cham- 
beri. She obtained for him the situation of clerk or secretary, 
in an ofiice for the valuation of estates, and he actually fulfilled 
its duties for two years ; but a treatise on harmony falling into 
his hands at the time when an illness confined him to his cham- 
ber, he felt his former tastes revive, gave up his situation, and 



J. J. ROUSSEAU. 853 

turned music-master. He was thus thrown into the best society 
of the town, and found it much more pleasant to spend his time 
in teaching young ladies, than in making calculations in a close 
dark office, with low-bred and unkempt clerks. 

We may not follow him in detail concerning the nature of 
the promotion he now received in the domestic establishment 
of his mistress; suffice it to mention, that having dabbled a 
little in anatomy, and persuaded himself that he had a polypus 
on his heart, our hero went to Montpellier for medical advice, 
and after being laughed at by the doctors, returned to find his 
place had been supplied in his absence. How did he feel ? 
^^ Reduced,'^ he says, ^ Ho form a fate for myself independent 
of her, and not being able even to imagine such, I sought it 
wholly in herself. The desire of seeing her happy engrossed 
all my feelings. In vain did she separate her happiness from 
mine : I saw it in hers, in vspite of her. Thus the virtues 
whose seeds were in my soul, and which had been matured by 
study, began to germinate with my misfortunes, and only waited 
for the operation of adversity to bud forth. '^ Strange notions 
of virtue these ! 

He tells us that, among other fancies that occurred to him 
at Chamberi, he had a short fit of uneasiness as to his fate in 
a future life ; and that he resolved the mighty problem after a 
fashion not recognised by any church. He placed himself 
opposite a tree, and taking up a stone, said : ^^ If I hit, sign 
of salvation ; if I miss, sign of damnation.'^ He did hit ; for 
he had chosen a tree both very large and very near. " From 
that time,'' said he at an advanced period of his life, ^^I never 
had a doubt of my salvation/' 

Finding after some time that he had not only irretrievably 
lost the lady's affection, but that his rival was unworthy of his 
attempts to improve him, and that his mistress's afi^airs, more- 
over, were going to ruin, he hurried from the scene. Paris 
was now his destination ; and as he travelled thither, he felt 
30* 



354 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

as certain of making a fortune by a new method of musical 
notation which he had invented, as he had once been of travel- 
ling over Europe by the exhibition of a Hiero's fountain. His 
visit did not answer the purpose for which it was undertaken, 
for his invention was not approved ; but it procured him some 
influential friends, through whom he obtained an appointment 
as secretary to the French ambassador at Venice. Like every 
other situation, however, which promised comfort in connexion 
with steady occupation, this lasted but a short time. Eous- 
seau returned to Paris, formed an acquaintance with Diderot 
and Grimm, and was well-nigh becoming one of the clique of 
philosophers, when the discrepancy of his sentiments was dis- 
covered, and he became a martyr for the theory of virtue for 
its own sake, in opposition to virtue only so far as founded in 
self-interest. About the same time, he took under his protec- 
tion Therese Levasseur, a young girl whom he met at a sort of 
tavern. He declares he never loved her, and that she was so 
stupid, he never could hammer a solitary idea into her head ; 
yet she and her mother — a low, ignorant, cunning woman, 
hung upon him as a drag to the end of his life, towards the 
close of which he made Therese his wife. His children, five 
in number, were consigned in succession to the foundling hos- 
pital, which rendered their after recognition impossible, even 
had he desired it, which he did not. Such, in practice, was the 
man who spun a theory of education for the admiration of all 
France, protested even against a child being given out to be 
nursed, and demanded that from its earliest infancy it should 
be surrounded by a parent's watchful care, with everything to 
render it happy, to make sorrow a feeling unknown, and to lead 
it by the gentlest arts in the paths of virtue ! 

These events bring us to the epoch of Rousseau's receiving 
a new inspiration, and becoming a literary character, as we 
have already described. Not only did a new world of thought 
open to him in connexion with his first essay, but the favor 



J. J, ROUSSEATT, 355 

of tlie public prepared for him a new scene of life ; for, little 
as we may think of it now, the sensation it created was pro- 
digious, and Eousseau, like Byron, awoke and found himself 
famous. He had now to sustain, in the habits of his life, the 
character attached to him as an enemy to the embellishments 
of civilized humanity; and accordingly he remodelled his 
dress, clapped an outre wig on his head, gave up wearing a 
watch, and was petted by the fine ladies of his acquaintance 
as a bear. Everything he did seemed to increase his reputa- 
tion : his opera of Le Devhi du Village was completely suc- 
cessful, and he might have been presented to Louis XV. had 
he not declined the honor. He visited Geneva, abjured 
popery, and was invited to remain among his compatriots ; but 
he shrunk from living under the shadow of his mortal enemy, 
Voltaire, who, it will be remembered, was now living in the 
neighborhood, and intermeddling in the politics of the repub- 
lic. While he hesitated, Madame d'Epinay oiFered him awing 
of her chateau, on the borders of the forest of Montmorency, 
where he might copy music — which was his professional 
occupation — might meditate, and write tirades against society; 
in short, do what he pleased, without being disturbed by 
Parisian bustle^ nor yet lost sight of in the metropolis. But 
here he was imprudent enough to disturb the peace of the 
family circle, by falling desperately in love with the sister of 
his patroness, notwithstanding her having already a professed 
amant as well as a husband, according to the usao:e of that 
virtuous age. And now Rousseau believed that Grimm and 
Diderot, hitherto his friends, were striving to demolish his 
reputation and destroy his peace, because these philosophers 
of expediency, being at the same time warm friends of the 
family, thought it expedient that Rousseau should give up his 
fancy; and he, ^^a lover of virtae for its own sake/^ could not 
find it in his heart to love virtue so much as Madame d'Hou- 
detot. Our philosopher seems actually to have had the notion 



35G FRENCH LITERATURE. 

— and what is stranger still, ttere are writers of the present 
day who sustain it — that he was a solitary lover of truth and 
hater of faction, existing apart from the corruption of the 
world, a sort of living reproach to the fashionable litterateurs 
who ruled the day, and shone in the eyes of all Paris. 

The Confessions of Rousseau end with his literary career, 
which we have already noticed, the date of both being his 
residence in England. We touch but lightly on the rest of 
his life, as we have no longer his own voice to guide us, and 
we would not be accused of vilifying the idol of France by 
following any biography which might be hostile. He was 
permitted to return to Paris, on condition that he should 
abandon his Armenian dress, and not publish any more. He 
was received in the most flattering manner; but he was a prey 
to the most poignant mental anguish, and seemed even to 
luxuriate in his horrors, frequently repeating a stanza of Tasso, 
which described his own situation. It is even said that his 
countenance was so changed as to be unrecognisable by those 
who were most familiar with it. On the 3d of July, 1778, he 
died suddenly at the chateau of a friend, and not without sus- 
picion of suicide. 

As an apostate from the church, he could not be buried in 
consecrated ground, and was therefore quietly interred by 
moonlight in the gardens of the chateau. On his tomb was 
inscribed : — 

ici repose 
l'homme de la nature 

ET DE LA VERITi. 
VITAM IMPENDERE VERO. 

With what truth, let the reader judge. 

Such was in Eousseau^s case the discrepancy between theory 
and fjict, between dreaming of virtue and living virtuously. 

The following is a description from his own pen of his mode 
of day-dreaming: — 



J. J. ROUSSEAU. 357 

JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU A MALESH^RBES. 

Apres vous avoir expose, monsieur, les vrais motifs de ma conduite, 
je voudrais vous parler de mon etat moral dans ma retraite ; mais je 
sens qu'il est bien tard ; mon ame alienee d'elle-meme est toute a mon 
corps. Le delabrement de ma pauvre machine I'y tient de jour en 
jour plus attachee et jusqu'a ce qu'elle s'en separe enfin tout a coup. 
C'est de mon bonheur que je voudrais vous parler, et Ton parle mal 
du bonheur quand on soufifre. 

Mes maux sont I'ouvrage de la nature, mais mon bonheur est le 
mien. Quoi qu'on en puisse dire, j'ai ete sage, puisque j'ai ^t^ 
heureux autant que ma nature m'a permis de I'etre : je n'ai point 
^te chercher ma felicite au loin ; je I'ai cherchee aupres de moi, et 
I'y ai trouvee. Spartien dit que Similis, courtisan de Trajan, ay ant 
sans aucun mecontentement personnel quitte la cour et tons ses 
emplois, pour aller vivre paisiblement a la campagne, fit mettre ces 
mots sur sa tombe : J'ai demeure soixante et seize ans sur la terre, et 
fen ai vecu sept. Voila ce que je puis dire, a quelque egard, quoique 
mon sacrifice ait 6t6 moindre ; je n'ai commence a vivre que le 9 
mai 1756. 

Je ne saurais vous dire, monsieur, combien j'ai et^ touche de voir 
comme vous m'estimiez le plus malheureux des hommes. Le public 
sans doute en jugera comme vous, et c'est encore ce qui m'afflige. 
Oh ! que le sort dont j'ai joui n'est-il connu de tout I'univers ! chacun 
voudrait s'en faire un semblable ; la paix regnerait sur la terre : les 
homme^ ne songeraient plus a se nuire ; et il n'y aurait plus de 
m^chants quand nul n'aurait d'interet a I'etre. Mais de quoi jouissais-je 
enfin quand j'etais seul ? De moi, de I'univers entier, de tout ce qui 
est, de tout ce qui pent etre, de tout ce qu'a de beau le monde sen- 
sible, et d'imaginable le monde intellectuel ; je rassemblais autour 
de moi tout ce qui pouvait flatter mon coeur; mes desirs etaient la 
mesure de mes plaisirs. Non, jamais les plus voluptueux n'ont connu 
de pareilles delices, et j'ai cent fois plus joui des chimeres qu'ils ne 
font des realites. 

After describing the beauties of his country residence (at 
the Hermitage), he goes on : — 

Mon imagination ne laissait pas longtemps deserte cette terre ainsi 
paree. Je la peuplais bientot d'etres selon mon coeur, et chassant 
bien loin I'opinion, les prejuges, toutes les passions factices, je trans- 



858 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

portals dans les asiles de la nature des ^tres dignes de les habiter, 
Je m'en formais une society charmante, dont je ne me sentais pas 
indigne ; je me faisais un siecle d'or a ma fantaisie, et remplissant 
ces beaux jours de toutes les scenes de ma vie qui m'avaient laisse de 
doux souvenirs, et de toutes celles que mon coeur pouvait desirer 
encore, je m'attendrissais jusqu'aux larmes sur les vrais plaisirs de 
I'humanite; plaisirs si delicieux, si purs, et qui sont desormais si loin 
des hommes. Oh ! si dans ces moments quelque idee de Paris, de 
mon siecle et de ma petite gloriole d'auteur, venait troubler mes 
reveries, avec quel dedain je la chassais a I'instant, pour me livrer 
sans distraction aux sentiments exquis dont mon ame etait pleine ! 
Cependant au milieu de tout cela, je I'avoue, le neant de mes chime- 
res venait quelquefois la contrister tout a coup. Quand tons mes 
reves se seraient tournes en realites, ils ne m auraient pas suffi ; 
j'aurais imagine, reve, desire encore. Je trouvais en moi un vide 
inexplicable, que rien n'aurait pu remplir ; un certain elancement de 
coeur vers une autre sorte de jouissance dont je n' avals pas d'idee, et 
dont pourtant je sentais le besoin. Eh bien, monsieur, cela memo 
etait jouissance, puisque j'en etais penetre d'un sentiment tres-vif et 
d'une tristesse attirante, que je n'aurais pas voulu ne pas avoir. 

Bientot, de la surface de la terre, j'elevais mes idees a tons les 
etres de la nature, au systeme universel des choses, a I'etre incompre- 
hensible qui embrasse tout. Alors, I'esprit perdu dans cette immen- 
site, je ne pensais pas, je ne raisonnais pas, je ne philosophais pas ; 
je me sentais avec une sorte de volupt^ accable du poids de cet 
univers ; je me livrais avec ravissement a la confusion de ces grandes 
idees ; j'aimais a me perdre en imagination dans I'espace ; mon coeur 
resserr^ dans les bornes des etres s'y trouvait trop a I'etroit, j'^toufifais 
dans I'univers, j'aurais voulu m'elancer dans I'lnfini. Je crois que si 
j'eusse devoile tous les myst^res de la nature, je me serais senti dans 
une situation moins delicieuse que cette etourdissante extase a laquelle 
mon esprit se livrait sans retenue, et qui, dans I'agitation de mes 
transports, me faisait eerier quelquefois, grand Etre ! sans pouvoir 
dire ni penser rien de plus. 

Ainsi s'ecoulaient, dans un delire continuel, les journees les plus 
charmantes que jamais creature humaine ait passives : et quand le 
coucher du soleil me faisait songer a la retraite ! ^tonne de la rapidity 
du temps, je croyais ne pas avoir assez mis a profit ma journee, je 
pensais pouvoir en jouir davantage encore ; et pour reparer le temps 
perdu, je me disais : Je reviendrai demain. 



BurroN. 359 

Less happy than Pygmalion^ who^ having made an ivory 
image of a maiden, and fallen in love with it, prayed that life 
might be breathed into it, and was blest in the realization of 
his fancy — Eonsseau '' created an ideal; but he saw the impos- 
sibility of its realization in the world, gnashed his teeth at 
actualities, and sunk in despair and madness/' 

To Montesquieu, Voltaire, and Rousseau, must be added 
Buffon, and then we have named four writers of this age who 
left all their contemporaries far behind. 

Georges Louis Leclerc, afterwards Comte de Buffon, 
was born at Montbar, in Burgundy, in the year 1707. His 
father, who was counsellor to the parliament of I^ijon, gave 
him every advantage of fortune and education, and allowed 
him to choose his own career. It is believed that he imbibed 
his love of the study of nature from an English gentleman 
travelling with his pupil, the Duke of Kingston, whom he 
joined, and with whom he visited various parts of France, 
Italy, and England. He first attracted notice by some experi- 
ments in rural economy, and communications to the Academy 
of Sciences, of which he was admitted a member in 1739. 
About the same time, he was appointed superintendent of the 
Jardin du Boi, first formed by Louis XIII., and now by suc- 
cessive improvements become an important establishment. 
From this time, devoting himself entirely to the study of 
natural history, he made it his pride to extend and enrich the 
fine establishment of which he had the charge ; to gather into 
it from all parts of the world the various productions of 
nature, he built in it a museum, galleries, conservatories; and, 
proudly happy in the midst of these treasures, conceived the 
project of composing a natural history which should embrace 
the whole immensity of being, animate and inanimate. He 
first laid down a theory of the earth ; then treated the natural 
history of man ; afterwards that of viviparous quadrupeds and 



860 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

birds. The first volumes of liis work appeared in 1749 ; and 
in the course of subsequent years, supplementary matter was 
added at various intervals, the most important of these later 
treatises being Les Epoques de la Nature, 

Buffon was an indefatigable student; and his industrious 
disposition was favored by a robust and healthy constitution. 
It is said that a domestic had orders to awake him every morn- 
ing at dawn, in the name of science ; and that he sometimes 
studied fourteen hours without intermission. Yet even thus 
he could not have overtaken all the details of the work before 
him, and was therefore happy in finding several talented coad- 
jutors. He gave incredible attention to his style; and is 
considered one of the most brilliant writers of the eighteenth 
century. No naturalist has surpassed, or even nearly equalled 
him, in the magnificence of his theories, hypothetical though 
they are ; or the animation of his description of the manners 
and habits of animals. Perhaps there never has been a writer 
more difficult to please in the choice of his expressions, and 
the harmony of his periods. It is said that he wrote the 
Epochs of Nature eleven times over. He not only recited his 
compositions aloud, in order to judge of the rhythm and 
cadence, but he made a point of being in full-dress before he 
sat down to write, believing that the splendor of his habili- 
ments had an eff'ect upon his mind, and impressed his language 
with that pomp and elegance which he so much admired, and 
which, rather than flexibility or pathos, is his distinguishing 
characteristic. This love of dress, with his dignified carriage 
and air of superiority, procured for him the sobriquet of the 
Comte de Tufiere. 

Few writers have enjoyed such a long career, apparently so 
happy, attended with so much renown, and checkered with so 
little hostility. He was received at court by Louis XV., who 
created him Comte de Bufi'on ; Frederic the Great, King of 
Prussia, and Catherine 11. , empress of Russia, in common 



BUEFON. 361 

with several other distinguished individuals in foreign coun- 
tries, used to send him objects of interest in connexion with 
his favorite pursuits; and during the war with America, 
even the English corsairs respected and spared the bearers of 
specimens from th^ New World addressed to the great na- 
turalist. He was elected a member of the French Academy 
in 1758, on which occasion he delivered the discourse on 
Style, of which some passages are given below. While main- 
taining friendship with the celebrated men of his age, he did 
not identify himself with the party of the Encyclopedists, 
Economists, and Philosophers, or the sects into which they 
were divided ; he espoused none of their quarrels, nor enter- 
tained their animosities, nor shared their humiliations. He said 
the path of fame was broad enough for all without any jost- 
ling. Keeping thus out of literary and political cabals, he had 
no persecutors; and he even managed to appease the Sor- 
bonne, by declaring that he would be happy to subject his 
opinions to the laws of religion. His great rival was Lin- 
nseus, whose attention was directed to similar objects, but in a 
totally different manner, Buffon was the man of large general 
views ; Linnseus, of close observation : the one, a telescopic — 
the other, a microscopic naturalist. Buffon would write a 
splendid description, Linnaeus, a careful definition; Buffon 
hated the classification for which Linnaeus was so celebrated; 
he had no patience for making natural history a mere nomen- 
clature — a collection of naked facts, held together by artificial 
ties; he would at once penetrate the secrets of Nature, and 
present her under her most picturesque aspects; and he 
treated with some degree of levity and contempt the labors 
of the gifted Swede. Linnaeus made no direct reply, but 
took an immortal revenge, by naming after him (^Biiffonid) a 
marsh-plant which affords shelter to toads.* 

'^'Bujo is the Latin of ToacL 
Si 



862 TRENCH LITERATURE. 

It was the custom of Buifon to spend the summer on his 
own estate of Montbar, and the winter at the royal gardens. 
He married late in life, and had only one son, who fell a victim 
to the revolutionary tribunal in 1793, five years after the old 
man had died at Paris, in 1788, at the age of eighty-one. 

No one now thinks of maintaining Bufibn's theory of the 
earth : that a comet dashed against the sun, and struck off 
fragments, which presently formed themselves into planets, at 
first hot, vitrified masses, but afterwards cooling by degrees, 
some more quickly than others; that organized beings suc- 
cessively sprung into life on their surfaces as the temperature 
abated ; and that these organic beings are all compounded of 
certain uniform and indestructible molecules, which only pass 
through different processes, and arrange themselves in different 
forms to produce the varieties of vegetable and animal nature. 
But while we smile at the splendid but now exploded hypo- 
theses of Buffon, be it remembered that the fascination of his 
eloquent pages served to awaken that interest in the subject 
which has given the world a host of intelligent naturalists, and 
among them the great Cuvier himself. The desire of explain- 
ing — a disposition to search into causes — a passion for theo- 
rizing and generalization — are the early and necessary aliment 
of every science. It is the expectation of discovering some 
great secret of nature that has inspired, in the first instance, 
the wish to search into its details ; and hope has kept emula- 
tion alive till more solid and useful results have been attained 
than those which were sought. It behoves us to honor a 
noble genius even in its mistakes, if it gives an impulse which 
leads others into the right path. 

We must do this, however, in Buffon's case with qualifica- 
tion, and remark with disapproval the atheism which pervades 
his system. The writings of this author exhibit distinctly the 
general features of the eighteenth century. In the previous 
age, Descartes, like him, had desired to become acquainted 



BUFFON. 363 

witli nature, but his curiosity was directed to the union of the 
moral and the physical in man ; and Pascal reproached him 
with having done what he could to dispense with the Supreme 
Being in his speculations. Buffon lived among men who 
deemed physical nature alone worthy of study, and the wits 
of the age had succeeded in discovering how a Supreme Being 
might be dispensed with. Buffon evaded the subject entirely; 
ignored a creator in his universe ; and, amid all his lofty soar- 
ings, showed no disposition to rise to the Great First Cause. 

Few authors attempted to imitate Buffon. After his time, 
natural science be^-an to follow other methods. It was brouoht 
entirely into the domain of experience, and lost at once its 
contemplative and poetical character to acquire that of intelli- 
gent observation. It became a practical thing, and entered 
into close alliance with the arts. The arts and sciences thus 
combined became the glory of France, as literature had been 
in the preceding age. 

SUR LE STYLE: DISCOURS DE R]6CEPTI0N A L'AOAD^MIE FRAXgAISE. 

II s'est trouv^ dans tous les temps des hommes qui ont su com- 
mander aux autres par la puissance de la parole. Ce n'est neanmoins 
que dans les siecles eclair^s que Ton a bien ecrit et bien parle. La 
veritable eloquence suppose I'exercice du genie et la culture de 
I'esprit. EUe est bien differente de cette facilite naturelle de parler, 
qui n'est qu'un talent, une qualite accordee a tous ceux dont les pas- 
sions sont fortes, les organes souples et I'lmagination prompte. Ces 
hommes sentent vivement, s'affectont de meme, le marquent fortement 
au dehors, et, par une impression purement mecanique, ils transmet- 
tent aux autres leur enthousiasme et leurs affections. C'est le corps 
qui parle au corps ; tous les mouvements, tous les signes concourent 
et servent <Sgalement. Que faut-il pour emouvoir la multitude et 
Fentrainer ? Que faut-il pour ebranler la plupart meme des autres 
homme et les persuader ? un ton vehement et pathetique, des gestes 
expressifs et frequents, des paroles rapides et sonnantes. Mais pour 
le petit nombre de ceux dont la tete est ferme, le gout delicat et le 
sens exquis, et qui, comme vous. messieurs, comptent pour peu le 
ton, les gestes et le vain son des mots, il faut des choses, des pensees, 



864 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

des raisons ; il faut savoir les presenter, les nuancer, les ordonner : il 
ne suffit pas de frapper I'oreille et d'occuper les yeux ; il faut agir 
sur Tame et toucher le coeur en parlant a Fesprit. 

Le style n'est que I'ordre et le mouvement qu'on met dans ses pen- 
sees. Si on les enchaine etroitement, si on les serre, le style devient 
fort, nerveux et concis ; si on les laisse se succ^der lentement, et ne 
se joindre qu'a la faveur des mots, quelque elegants qu'ils soient, le 
style sera diffus, lache et trainant, 

-if * ^- * * 

Pourquoi les ouvrages de la nature sont-ils si parfaite ? C^est que 
chaque ouvrage est un tout, et qu'^Ue travaille sur un plan ^ternel, 
dont elle ne s'ecarte jamais ; elle prepare en silence le germe de ses 
productions ; elle ebauche par un acte unique la forme primitive de 
tout Stre vivant ; elle la developpe, elle la perfectionne par un mouve- 
ment continu et dans un temps prescrit. L'ouvrage etonne, mais c'est 
Fempreinte divine dont il porte les traits qui doit nous frapper. 
L'esprit humain ne pent rien creer ; il ne produira qu'apr^s avoir ete 
f^cond^ par Fexperience et la meditation. Ses connaissances sont les 
germes de ses productions ; mais s'il imite la nature dans sa marche 
et dans son travail, s'il s'eleve par la contemplation aux verites les 
plus sublimes, s'il les reunit, s'il les enchaine, s'il en forme un tout^ 
un systeme par la reflexion, il etablira sur des fondementsin^branlables 
des monuments immortels. 

C'est faute de plan, c'est pour n'avoir pas assez r^flechi sur son 
objet, qu'un homme d'esprit se trouve embarrass^, et ne sait par oil 
commencer a ecrire ; il aper9oit a la fois un grand nombre d'idees ; 
et comme il ne les a ni comparees, ni subordonnees, rien ne le deter- 
mine a preferer les unes aux autres. II demeure done dans la per- 
plexite ; mais lorsqu'il se sera fait un plan, lorsqu'une fois il aura 
rassemble et mis en ordre toutes les pensees essentielles a son sujet, 
il s'apercevra aisement de Finstant auquel il doit prendre la plume, il 
sentira le point de maturite de la production de Fesprit, il sera press6 
de la faire eclore, il n'aura meme que du plaisir a Ecrire ; les id^es 
se suGcederont aisement, et le style sera naturel et facile ; la chaleur 
naitra de ce plaisir, se repandra partout, et donnera de la vie a 
chaque expression ; tout s'animera de plus en plus, le ton s'el^vera, 
les objets prendront de la couleur, et le sentiment, se joignant a la 
lumi^re, Faugmentera, la portera plus loin, la fera passer de ce que 



BUFFON. 865 

Ton dit a ce que Ton va dire, et le style deviendra int^ressant et 

lumiaeux. 

* ^ ^ * ^ 

Pour bien ^crire il faut done posseder pleinement son sujet, il faut 
y reflechir assez pour voir clairement I'ordre de ses pensees, et en 
former une suite, une chaine continue, dont chaque point represente 
une idee ; et lorsqu'on aura pris la plume, il faudra la conduire suc- 
cessivement sur ce premier trait, sans lui permettre de s'en ecarter, 
sans I'appuyer trop inegalement, sans lui donner d'autre mouvement 
que celui qui sera determine par I'espace qu'elle doit parcourir. 
C'est en cela que consiste la severite du style ; c'est aussi ce qui en 
fera I'unite et ce qui en reglera la rapidite ; et cela seul aussi suffira 
pour le rendre precis et simple, ^gal et clair, vif et suivi. A cette 
premiM^e regie dictee par le g^nie, si Ton joint de la delicatesse et 
du gout, du scrupule sur le choix des expressions, de Tattention a ne 
nommer les choses que par les termes les plus generaux, le style 
aura de la noblesse. Si Ton y joint encore de la defiance pour son 
premier mouvement, du mepris pour ce qui n'est que brillant, et une 
repugnance constante pour I'equivoque et la plaisanterie, le style 
aura de la gravite, il aura meme de la majeste. Enfin, si Ton ecrit 
comme I'on pense, si Ton est convaincu de ce que Ton veut persuader, 
cette bonne foi avec soi-meme, qui fait la biens^ance pour les autres 
et la verite du style, lui fera produire tout son effet, pourvu que cette 
persuasion interieure ne se marque pas par un enthousiasme trop 
fort, et qu'il y ait partout plus de candeur que de confiance, plus de 
raison que de chaleur. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Ici, messieurs, I'application serait plus que la r^gle, les exemples 
instruiraient mieux que les preceptes ; mais comme il ne m'est pas 
permis de citer les morceaux sublimes qui m'ont si souvent transporte 
en lisant vos ouvrages, je suis contraint de me borner a des reflexions. 
Les ouvrages bien Merits seront les seuls qui passeront k la posterite. 
La quantite des connaissances, la singularity des faits, la nouveaute 
meme des decouvertes ne sont pas de surs garants de I'immortalite ; 
si les ouvrages qui les contiennent ne roulent que sur de petits objets, 
s'ils sont Merits sans gout, sans noblesse et sans genie, ils periront ; 
parce que les connaissances, les faits et les decouvertes s'enlevent 
aisdment, se transportent, et gagnent meme a etre mises en oeuvre 
par des mains plus iiabiles. Ces cboses sont hors de I'liomme, le 
81 * 



366 ^ FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Style est rhomme meme. Le style ne peut done ni s'enlever, ni se 
transporter, ni s'alterer; s'il est eleve, noble, sublime, I'auteur sera 
^galement admire dans tous les temps; car il n'y a que la verit6 
qui soit durable et meme ^ternelle. Or, un beau style n'est tel, 
en effet, que par le nombre infini des verites qu'il pr^sente. Toutes 
les beautes intellectuelles qui s'y trouvent, tous les rapports dont 
il est compose sont autant de verites aussi utiles, et peut-etre plus 
precieuses pour I'esprit humain, que celles qui peuvent faire le fond 
du sujet. 

Le sublime ne peut etre que dans les grands sujets. La po^sie, 
Phistoire et la philosophie ont toutes le meme objet, et un tr^s-grand 
objet: I'homme et la nature. La philosophie d^crit et d^peint la 
nature ; la poesie la peint et Fembellit ; elle point aussi les hommes, 
elle les agrandit, elle les exag^re, elle cr^e les h^ros et les dieux; 
I'histoire ne peint que I'homme, et le peint tel qu'il est ; ainsi le ton de 
I'historien ne deviendra sublime que quand il fera le portrait des plus 
grands hommes, quand il exposera les plus grandes actions, les plus 
grands mouvements, les plus grandes revolutions ; et partout ailleurs, 
il suflSra qu'il soit majestueux et grave. Le ton du philosophe pourra 
devenir sublime toutes les fois qu'il parlera des lois de la nature, des 
etres en general, de I'espace, de la matifere, du mouvement et du 
temps, de Fame, de I'esprit humain, des sentiments, des passions; 
dans le reste, il suffira qu'il soit noble et 61eve; mais le ton de 
I'orateur ou du poete, d^s que le sujet est grand, doit toujours etre 
sublime, parce qu'ils sont les maitres de joindre a la grandeur des 
sujets autant de couleur, autaut de mouvement, autant d'illusion qu'il 
leur plait ; et que, devant toujours peindre et toujours agrandir les 
objets, ils doivent aussi partout employer toute la force et d^ployer 
toute I'etendue de leur g(5nie. 

The declining years of Voltaire, Buffon, and Kousseau, wit- 
nessed no rising genius of similar power ; but a secondary rank 
was occupied by some authors that deserve mention. 

The rage for philosophy had left little room for poetry, and 
the drama was that branch of literature that most sensibly felt 
the decay, resulting from the preponderance of the new studies. 
A few tragedies were written in imitation of those already in 
existence — works of art, not fruits of inspiration; some come- 



THOMAS — MARMONTEL. 367 

dies, full of exaggerated feeling and pompons language, besides 
tlie dramas of Lemierre and Dubelloy, whicli had some native 
merits, but not sufficient to detain the reader in a treatise like 
the present. 

The only eminent successor of the great pulpit orators of the 
seventeenth century seems to have been Thomas, who culti- 
tivated funeral oration in a pompous and often affected style, 
as though he forgot that the secret of eloquence lies in the 
thought, and not in an artificial arrangement of words. In 
his Eloge de Marc-Aurele, however, which is his best, he has 
attained to strains at once elevated and pathetic. 

J. F. Marmontel* is distinguished as the writer of Beli- 
saire, a historico-philosophical romance, of which the first few 
chapters remind us of the style of TeUmaque. In his Conies 
MorauXj he exhibits with considerable charm the life and 
manners with which he was surrounded, but displays too little 
taste in the selection of his language, and probably as little 
fidelity, for there is no reason to believe that the general cor- 
ruption of manners had induced so great depravation of speech 
as these stories would convey. He appears to greater advan- 
tage in his Elemens de Litter aturej which include the articles 
he had furnished to the Encyclopedia. The desire of distin- 
guishing himself by a sort of revolt against received opinions,. 
had led him at first into some paradoxes, which he defended in- 
differently, and gradually renounced. In this work he follows 
the route opened by Fenelon in the Dialogues and Les Lettres 
sur r Eloquence J and by Montesquieu in his Essai sur le Gout : 
he analyzes with considerable delicacy the kind of feeling 
which characterizes the different forms of literary composi- 
tion ; inquires into the causes which may influence and modify 
this feeling ; and abandoning rules which can never give birth 

* See Marmonters Autobiography, London, 1827. 



368 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

to real talent, he teaches how works of imagination ought to 
be felt, instead of being coldly compared with prescribed 
models, and judged according to their greater or less con- 
formity with received precedents. Marmontel endeavors to 
lead his readers to the enjoyment of literature, instead of de- 
taining them with frigid criticism. 

The same was the forte of M. de la Harpe, who had even 
in a greater measure than Marmontel this feeling of literature. 
Some of his works still maintain their place, though they have 
little claim to originality. He was sometimes graceful in minor 
poetry ; but his reputation rests entirely on his success as a 
critic. During the whole of his life he was scattering in the 
periodicals the materials which he afterwards collected under 
the title of Oours de Litterature, He did not occupy himself 
as Marmontel had done, with general principles, but examined 
how these had been applied in the composition of such and 
such particular works, and endeavored especially to awaken in 
his readers the feelings which these works had elicited in his 
own mind. No one has shown greater enthusiasm than La 
Harpe in this kind of writing ] but he is dogmatic in his opi- 
nions ; carries no reserve or hesitation in his decisions ; and 
seems not to suspect that his friendships and his animosities 
have often guided his criticisms more than pure literary taste. 
It is to be observed, also, that he pays too much attention to 
the mere art of composition, neglecting to observe the feeling 
which dictated it, the circumstances which influenced the 
author, and the peculiar character of his talent. He had, 
besides, a very superficial appreciation of ancient and foreign 
literature. Few have displayed greater eloquence than M. de 
La Harpe in literary criticism ; but subsequent writers have 
shown greater penetration and more careful analyzation. 

Numerous writers devoted themselves to history in the 
eighteenth century ; but the spirit of French philosophy was 



LA HARPE. 369 

uncongenial to this species of composition, and this age does 
not afford one remarkable historian. There were, however, 
elegant translations made of the best works of the English 
historians, which were considered models of the methods to be 
followed in this study. But they had no rivals in France. 
It would have been almost too much to expect of a French 
litterateur that he should divest himself of the spirit of his 
own age to transport himself into the past, and make himself 
contemporaneous with it. In his eyes, the present was too far 
above all those that had preceded it, to allow him to descend 
from it for a moment. He would have considered himself to 
be falsifying his judgment, if he had endeavored to sympathize 
with, or even to imagine the sentiments of his predecessors. 
People had begun to have such a high estimation of human 
reason, and of the degree of perfection to which it had attained^ 
that in every kind of study they sought for positive notions. 
They cared little to know what others had thought or felt upon, 
certain facts ; every one wished to have them at his own dis- 
posal, in order to deduce from these premises an entirely new 
series of deductions. To facilitate this work, it was necessary 
to reduce as much as possible the number of primary notions, 
and especially to rid them of all particular coloring. It was 
thus that historical works became dry narrations of facts, with- 
out any bond of union, or anything like consecutive reasoning, 
and history was deprived of all that which imparts a lively 
and well-sustained interest to its recitals. No one could com- 
pose a tableau traced with conscience and feeling, but some 
made abridgments or extracts divested of all the charm of 
details. Their brevity appeared intended to aid the memory, 
but must have failed in this respect; for one cannot retain 
easily what has excited no interest. The president, Henault, 
gave the first model of these skeletons of history. His talent 
was worthy of better occupation. 



870 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Others gave more extent to their works, but it was employed 
in arguing and developing tlieir theories. With them, facts 
'were valuable chiefly as arguments, and the opinions of a his- 
torian were of more importance than his narrative. Condillac 
was the most voluminous writer in this style, and no one more 
fully displayed its defects. The Abb§ Eaynal was the most 
renownedj his fame resting chiefly on his Hutory of the Two 
Indies. It is difficult to conceive how a sober man could have 
arrived at such delirium of opinion, and how he could exhibit 
with such complaisance a set of principles which tended to 
the overthrow of the whole system of society. Scarcely a 
crime was committed during the Revolution with which this 
century closed, but could find its advocate in this declaimer. 
It is to be remarked however, that when Raynal found himself 
actually in the midst of the turmoils he had suggested, he be- 
haved with justice, moderation, and courage ; so dangerous is 
it to place confidence in opinions which are not the fruit of 
experience. An author immured in his study, ignorant of 
men and of public afi"airs, gets inflamed by his own discourses ; 
war, revolution, the effusion of torrents of blood, the destruc- 
tion of entire races of men, appear to him only a grand per- 
formance to celebrate the triumph of his opinions. It would 
be cowardly to change his course of thought in the midst of 
the imaginary fracas. But he lays down his pen, and again 
becomes what he really is — a lover of peace, and gentleness, 
and humanity ; himself would detest in the mouth of another 
the words he has put on paper. Such an author was Eaynal. 

The Recueil de V Acad6mie des Inscriptions deserves men- 
tion here, as embodying the learned labors of a society which 
preserved somewhat of the spirit of the old authors. They 
were engrossed with researches, which they prosecuted for 
love of the study, and not of public approval. They thus 
acquired a spirit of healthy criticism, and gradually emanci- 
pated themselves from the superstition which the writers of 



RAYNAL. 871 

tte precediDg age had mingled with all their antique studies. 
Instead of judging antiquity by modern principles, or invest- 
ing it with modern habiliments, they strove to reproduce its 
own color and character in their purity, and classic translations 
became more faithful. These savans devoted themselves to a 
still more interesting branch of antiquarian study in the 
examination of the old romances of their own country ; and 
they brought to light much that was valuable in connexion 
with its early chivalrous institutions and manners. 

The days of true religious eloquence were past ; both the 
orators and the auditors were changed. Faith was extinct in 
the greater part of the community, cold and timid among the 
rest. People no longer resorted to the churches to hear the 
announcement of truths venerated in every heart ; nor entered 
the sacred precincts with feelings attuned to sympathy with 
what they were to hear and see. The churches were attended 
from curiosity to criticise the word^ not to receive it ; to see 
whether the preacher got skilfully out of the difficulty of 
treating matters which were neither believed nor reverenced 
by his hearers ; and a sermon was listened to with the same 
dispositions as an academic discourse on a disputed theory. 
To grapple with this unhappy tendency would have needed a 
set of bold and fervid orators, deeply read in the science of 
theology, and animated with a faith, grieved, but not shaken 
by the infidelity of the age. Unfortunately, however, the 
people generally have greater influence on their orators than 
their orators have on them. The preachers of the time now 
under review fulfilled their office with a sort of timidity and 
reserve; they were afraid of offending against the fashion, and 
seemed ever begging its pardon, both for their vocation and 
their discourses. In deference to the taste of their auditors, 
they kept out of view whatever was purely religious, and 
enlarged on those topics which coincided with merely human 
morality. Religion was introduced only as an accessory which 



372 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

it was necessary to disguise as skilfully as possible, in order to 
escape derision. Genuine pulpit eloquence was out of the 
question under these circumstances. 

Forensic eloquence had been improving in simplicity and 
seriousness from the commencement of the eighteenth century ; 
but now a concurrence of circumstances led the men of the 
law to turn their attention to general views ; to trace out uni- 
versal principles, rather than discuss isolated facts. The 
eloquence of the bar thus acquired more extensive interest, 
though perhaps it departed somewhat from its true vocation ; 
the factums of advocates, and the addresses of magistrates, 
began to take a place in general literature. The government 
contributed to give this new spirit to forensic eloquence, and 
unconsciously to render it a hostile power. Whether tyran- 
nical in practice or not, it professed the principles of absolute 
despotism, and acknowledged no rights but its own ; while the 
magistrates charged with defending the privileges of the 
citizen opposed these pretensions, and argued the case before 
the world. Throughout the kingdom, the advocates and the 
tribunals discussed questions of liberty, the limits of au- 
thority, the constitution of the Christian republic. Resist- 
ance on the one hand led to extremities on the other ; and 
the controversy, which is now almost forgotten, had a powerful 
effect on the minds of the lawyers, giving them habits of 
treating general questions, and furnishing them with weapons 
both of reason and erudition, which had not been thought of 
before. 

We are thus brought close upon the epoch of the dreadful 
denouement — the time when the national spirit was not to be 
traced in books but in actions. The reign of Louis XV. had 
been marked with general disorder; the king had become 
more and more degraded in his own way of life ; and while he 
was sinking into the grave amid the scorn of the people, the 



BEAUMARCHAIS. 373 

magistrates were punished for opposing the royal authority, 
and the public were indignant at the arbitrary proceeding. 
Beaumarchais became the organ of this feeling, and his 
memoirs, like his comedies, are replete with enthusiasm, cyni- 
cism, and buffoonery. Their hardihood, however, was at least 
equalled by their success. Literature was now regarded as 
the universal and powerful instrument which it behooved every 
man to possess ; every class was anxious to adopt the ideas 
of the superior class; literature was never so popular; the 
theatres, almanacs, and romances of the lowest class, were filled 
with the fashionable opinions, and diffused them among the 
masses. A traveller, who visited France at this time after an 
absence of some years, declared that the most remarkable 
change he observed, was that what used to be said in the 
salons was now heard in the streets. It was thus that all 
grades of society were filled with authors and philosophers ; 
some of them, of course, being satisfied with mere verbiage 
instead of well-digested thoughts. The journals lent their aid 
to this disposition ; they had ceased to be depositories of seri- 
ous opinions on matters of science and literature ; they were 
now published at shorter intervals, got up with greater facility, 
and perused with less reflection. 

In short, the public mind was tending towards some change 
without exactly knowing what it would have. From the mon- 
arch on the throne — Louis XVI. — to the lowest of the people, 
all were eager for a new order of things ; for all perceived the 
utter discordance that prevailed between existing institutions 
and existing opinions. 

In the midst of the dull murmur which announced the 
approaching storm, literature, as though its work of agitation 
had been accomplished, took up the shepherd^s reed for public 
amusement. " Posterity will scarcely believe,'^ says an emi- 
nent historian, ^^that Paul and Virginia^ and the Indian 
82 



374 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Cottage, were composed at this juncture by Bernardin de 
St. Pierre ; as also the Fables of Florian, which are the 
only ones that have ever been considered readable since those 
by La Fontaine/' 

About the same time appeared Le Voyage d' Anacliarsis, in 
which the Abbe Barthelemy embodied his erudition in an 
attractive form, presenting a living picture of ancient Greece 
in the time of Pericles. 

A number of other writers appeared, less strange to the 
general spirit that was abroad. One of the most virtuous of 
these was M. Necker, the financial minister of Louis XVI., 
who not only again and again stemmed the tide of ruin that 
was rushing upon the nation, but maintained the cause of 
religion against the torrent of public opinion in works distin- 
guished by delicacy and elevation, seriousness and gentleness. 
We allude particularly to his Cours de Morale Religieuse. The 
final withdrawal of this worthy man from the administration 
of the finances was the too certain indication that the affairs 
of the government were irretrievable. 

When the storm at length burst, the country was exposed 
to every kind of revolutionary tyranny — such is the conse- 
quence of insurrectionary enterprises, undertaken without any 
certain object, but merely for the satisfaction of a vague sen- 
timent. It is not our intention to trace the steps of this fearful 
progress, except so far as it is intimately connected with the 
literature under review. 

The first actors in the work of destruction were, for the 
most part, actuated by good intentions and a sincere desire for 
the public weal, however misled by illusory notions. The 
61ite of the nation collected from all quarters of its territory to 
discuss the dearest of its interests, doubtless brought all their 
best talents to their work, and knew no better than to labor 
for the establishment of theories, instead of studying their 



ANDRE CHENIER. 375 

practical application. But these men were soon superseded 
by a new set of politicians — men of a lower class, envious of 
all distinctions of rank, and deeply imbued with the principles 
of the philosophers whose works we have referred to in the 
preceding pages. Some were full of Rousseau, and derived 
from his writings a hatred of everything above them ; others 
had taken from Mably his admiration of the ancient republics 
of Greece and Rome, and would have reproduced their forms 
in modern France ; others had borrowed from Raynal the 
revolutionary torch which he had lighted for the destruction 
of all institutions ; others, educated in the atheistic fanaticism 
of Diderot, trembled with rage at the very name of priest or 
religion; and some of these theorists would coolly try, at least, 
the working of their opinions, whatever the experiment might 
cost. After their time of power, the Revolution had little 
moral relation to the history of opinions ; it was handed over 
to the guidance of passion and personal interest. 

In hurrying past these years of anarchy and bloodshed, we 
cast a passing glance on a poet, Andre Chenier, who dared 
to write in the Journal de Paris against the excesses of his 
countrymen ; in consequence of which he was cited before the 
revolutionary tribunal, condemned, and executed (1794). In 
the prison from which he was led to death, he composed the 
following : — 

lAMBES. 

Quand au mouton belant la sombre boucherie 

Ouvre ses cavernes de mort, 
Pauvres chiens et moutons, toute la bergerle 

Ne s'informe plus de son sort. 
Les enfants qui suivaient ses ebats dans la plaine, 

Les vierges aux belles couleurs 
Qui le baisaient en foule, et sur sa blanche laine 

Entrela9aient rubans et fleurs, 
Sans plus penser a lui le mangent s'il est tendre. 

Dans cet abxme enseveli, 



876 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

J'ai le meme destin. Je m'y devais attendre. 

Accoutumons-nous a I'oubli. 
Oublies comme moi dans cet affreux repaire, 

Mille autres moutons comme moi, 
Pendus au croc sanglant du charnier populaire, 

Seront servis au peuple-roi. 
Que pouvaient mes amis ? Oui, de lour main cherie 

Un mot a travers ces barreaux 
A verse quelque baume en mon ame fl^trie, 

De Tor peut-etre a mes bourreaux. 
Mais tout est precipice. lis ont eu droit de vivre. 

Vivez, amis ; vivez contents. 
' En depit de Bavus soyez lents a me suivre. 

Peut-etre en de plus heureux temps 
J'ai moi-meme, a I'aspect des pleurs de I'infortune, 

Detourne mes regards distraits ; 
A mon tour aujourd'hui mon malheur importune; 

Vivez, amis ; vivez en paix. 

LA JEUNE CAPTIVE. 

L'epi naissant murit de la faux respects ; 
Sans crainte du pressoir le pampre tout I'et^ 

Boit les doux presents de FAurore; 
Et moi, comme lui belle, et jeune comme lui, 
Quoi que I'heure presente ait de trouble et d'ennui, 

Je ne veux point mourir encore. 

Qu'un stoi'que aux yeux sees vole embrasser la Mort ; 
Moi je pleure et j'espere. Au noir souffle du nord 

Je plie et releve ma tete. 
S'il est des jours amers, il en est de si doux! 
Helas I quel miel jamais n'a laisse de dugouts ? 

Quelle mer n'a point de tempete ? 

L'illusion feconde liabite dans mon sein. 
D'une prison sur moi les murs pbsent en vain, 

J'ai les ailes de TEsperance. 
Echappee aux r^seaux de I'oiseleur cruel, 
Plus vive, plus heureuse, aux campagnes du ciel 

PhilomMe chante et s'^lance. 



ANBRE CHENIER. 377 

Est-ce a moi de mourir ? Tranquille je m'endors, 
Et tranquille je veille ; et ma veille aux remords 

Ni mon sommeil ne sont en proie. 
Ma bienvenue au jour me rit dans tous les yeux ; 
Sur des fronts abattus mon aspect dans ces lieux 

Ranime presque de la joie. 

Mon beau voyage encore est si loin de sa fin ! 
Je pars, et des ormeaux qui bordent le chemia 

J'ai pass^ les premiers a peine. 
Au banquet de la vie a peine commence, 
Un instant seulement mes levres ont press6 

La coupe en mes mains encor pleine. 

Je ne suis qu'au printemps ; je veux voir la moisson, 
Et, comme le soleil, de saison en saison 

Je veux achever mon annee. 
Brillante sur ma tige et I'honneur du jardin, 
Je n'ai vu luire encor que les feux du matin ; 

Je veux achever ma journee. 

Mort ! tu peux attendre ; eloigne, ^loigne-toi ; 
Va consoler les coeurs que la honte, I'efi'roi, 

Le pale desespoir devore : 
Pour moi Pales encore a des asiles verts, 
Les Amours, des baisers ; les Muses, des concerts : 

Je ne veux point mourir encore. 

— Ainsi, triste et captif, ma lyre toutefois 
S'eveillait, ecoutant ces plaintes, cette voix, 

Ces voeux d'une jeune captive ; 
Et secouant le faix de mes jours languissants, 
Aux douces lois des vers je pliais les accents 

De sa bouche aimable et naive. 

Ces chants, de ma prison temoins harmonieux, 
Feront a quelque amant des loisirs studieux 

Chercher quelle fut cette belle. 
La grace decorait son front et ses discours : 
Et, comme elle, craindront de voir finir leurs jours 

Ceux qui les passeront pr^s d'elle. 
32* 



THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. 



XXII.— RISE OF THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL. 

MADAME DE STAEL — MADAME DE GENLIS — M. LE VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 

When Napoleon found himself firmly seated on tlie throne 
of the Empire, he gave abundant encouragement to the arts, 
but little or none to literature. His reign is characterized by 
the fact, that books were little in request ; old editions of the 
best authors were sold for a mere fraction of their original 
price ; but new works were dear, because the demand for them 
was so limited, that publishers durst not print a large number 
of copies. 

When literature ventured to lift up its head again, it ap- 
peared that a new order of thought had been generated in the 
chaos of events. In vain the Journal des Dehats undertook 
to lead the taste of the nation back to the ancient classics, and 
the French models of the seventeenth century; the feelings 
of the people were all for the freer forms of other modern 
literatures introduced to their acquaintance by Madame de 
Stael and M. Chateaubriand. The powerful impress left by 
these two authors requires that we introduce them more par- 
ticularly. 

Madame de Stael,"^ whom the general voice has pro- 

* See Mrs. Child's Madame de Stael, New York, 1847. 

(378) 



MADAME DE STAEL. 379 

nounced tlie greatest of all female authors, was the only 
daughter of the celebrated financier Necker, and born in Paris 
in 1766. Though possessing an exuberance of childish 
buoyancy, she seems never to have been a child in intellect. 
She was early introduced to the society of the cleverest men in 
Paris, with whom her father's house was a favorite resort ; and 
before she was twelve years of age, such men as Raynal, 
Grimm, and Marmontel, used to converse with her as though 
she had been twenty, either sparring with her to elicit her 
ready eloquence, or inquiring into her studies, and recommend- 
ing new books. She thus early imbibed a taste for society and 
distinction, for interchanging ideas with intelligent men, and 
bearing her part in the brilliant conversation of the salon. 
Her mind was familiar from childhood with notions of success 
in society, and of literary reputation ; and it is little wonder 
they became necessary to her as daily food in after-life. 

Her mother, a pedantic disciplinarian, began by cramming 
her with learning to the injury of her health, so that at the 
age of fourteen she was obliged to forego serious study for a 
time, and had leave to surrender herself to the pleasures of 
imagination. Being sent into the country, in company with a 
congenial young friend, she amused herself with writing pas- 
toral dramas, and acting them. As she grew up, her affection 
for her father, her admiration of his talents and virtues, with 
an enthusiastic appreciation of his importance to his country, 
in connexion with literary ambition on her own account, be-* 
came the strongest passions of her life, and probably gave her 
mind that bent towards politics which afterwards distinguished 
her. '' Oh ! nothing,^' she wrote on one occasion, '' can equal 
the emotion that a woman feels when she hears the name of 
one beloved repeated by a whole people. All those faces which 
appear for the time animated by the same feeling as one's own; 
those innumerable voices which echo to the heart the name 
that rises in the air, and which appears to return from heaven 



880 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

after having received the homage of earth ; the inconceivable 
electric sympathy which runs from man to man when all share 
the same emotions, all those mysteries of nature and social 
feeling are added to the greatest mystery of all — love ; and 
the soul sinks under emotions altogether overmastering. When 
I came to myself, I felt that I had reached the extreme 
boundary of happiness.'' 

When Mademoiselle Necker was scarcely sixteen, she wrote 
her father a long anonymous letter on his Compte Renduj a 
statement of the past and present condition of the public 
finances — the first work of the kind which had ever appeared 
in France, and which naturally elicited a good deal of discus- 
sion. The father recognised the style, and appreciated at once 
the talent and the filial affection of his daughter. They became 
more attached than ever. 

At the age of twenty, Mademoiselle Necker gave her hand 
to the Baron de Stael, the Swedish ambassador at Paris ; not, 
it would seem, with a view of enjoying friendship, or com- 
panionship, to say nothing of love, but to gain a convenient 
position for the exercise of her talents, and the enjoyment of 
society. She now appeared at court, and about the same time 
made her debut in literature by publishing her letters on 
Rousseau's works. After the fashion in which friends used 
to write about friends at that time, we have the following por- 
trait of Madame de Stael soon after her marriage : — ^^ Zulma 
advances; her large dark eyes sparkle with genius; her hair, 
'^lack as ebony, falls on her shoulders in waving ringlets ; her 
features are more marked than delicate, and express something 
superior to the destiny of her sex. Every one cried, ^La 
voila !' when she appeared, and there was breathless silence. 
When she sang, she extemporized the words of her song ; her 
face kindled with more than natural ardor; she held the audi- 
ence in serious attention, at once astonished and delighted, 
and not knowing which most to admire — the facility or the 



MADAME DE STAEL. 381 

perfection of tlie performance. After the music, she spoke 
of the great truths of nature, the immortality of the soul, the 
love of liberty, the allurements and dangers of the passions : 
her features, meanwhile, assuming an expression superior to 
beauty; her countenance continually varying, her voice exhi- 
biting a thousand modulations, and a perfect harmony appear- 
ing between her thoughts and their expression. Even if her 
words were not heard, her meaning might have been gathered 
from her look, her gestures, and the inflections of her voice. 
When she ceased, a murmur of approbation ran round the 
room ; she looked down modestly, her long eyelashes covered 
her flashing eyes, and the sun was overcast V' 

Thus brilliantly and joyously did Madame de Stael launch 
into life. No marvel that when public events, already a 
swelling stream, became a tempestuous flood that wrecked her 
fondest hopes, and consigned her to a quiet retirement, she 
found it not a haven of repose and enjoyment, but a dead sea 
in which she could only struggle in despondency. 

The enthusiastic, sanguine, and imaginative mind of Madame 
de Stael was captivated by the promising harbingers of liberty, 
the first dawnings of the French Revolution, when nothing was 
sought but exemption from oppression, and none of the subse- 
quent excesses were foreseen. She witnessed nearly all its 
important events : she was present when the furious multitude 
forced the palace of Versailles, and brought the royal family 
to Paris ; she heard the forty-eight tocsins of Paris sound the 
alarm on the fatal 9th of August, and continue all night their 
monotonous and lugubrious tolling, while no one knew what 
the morrow would bring forth; and when the scene of tumult 
and bloodshed began, she scarcely escaped the dreadful carnage, 
and obtained leave to pass in safety and join her parents in 
Switzerland. Ardently as she had embraced the revolutionary 
cause, she was not blind to the change which it underwent, 
nor did she stubbornly adhere to it in its altered character* 
She not only abhorred, but courageously opposed the course 



382 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

which France was running towards regicide ; she drew up a 
written plan for the monarch's escape from the Tuileries — but 
it was never communicated to him; and she heroically incurred 
a still greater risk in publishing a defence of the queen at the 
commencement of the Keign of Terror. After the fall of the 
terrorists^ Madame de Stael wished to return to Paris. She 
loved French society, hated Genevese preciseness, and hoped 
to assist in the re-establishment of order. Her arrival in the 
capital (1795) was regarded as an epoch in public affairs. 
Passionately loving eclat, and eager to bear a part in the busy 
scenes of life, she made her house the rendezvous of all par- 
ties, and sought her own distinction in endeavoring to recon- 
cile them all, and to diffuse a spirit of mutual toleration. Her 
exertions in this respect were not without risk; but she looked 
upon danger as a crown of laurel, and, as far as she was per- 
sonally concerned, preferred the excitement of struggle to the 
repose of success. Her drawing-rooms became the resort of 
distinguished foreigners, ambassadors, and authors; and her- 
self a centre of a political society. She lent the aid of her 
talents in support of the Directory, being comparatively easy 
about the materials of the new government, if it would only 
prevent a recurrence of anarchy and bloodshed. But the 
people were eyeing with delight the brilliant spectacle of 
foreign conquests, under the direction of Bonaparte ; and the 
weakness and unpopularity of the Directory became the step- 
ping-stone for the military domination which he succeeded in 
establishing at home. 

Madame de Stael and Bonaparte early evinced a thorough 
dislike of each other ; she saw the anti-liberal tendency of his 
mind, the inherent germ of despotism, and refused to be 
dazzled by those achievements which had turned the heads of 
her countrymen. On the other hand, Bonaparte regarded her 
as an unwelcome phenomenon; his aversion probably being 
composed of jealousy of the admiration which her talents 



MADAME DE STAEL. 383 

created, with his preconceived contempt for the intellect of 
her sex. The hostility which originated in prejudice was 
steadily continued. A woman of her calibre was unmanage- 
able ; a man of eminent talents might be put into office and 
rendered subservient to his policy ; but Napoleon could offer 
her no boon which would induce her to forego the liberty of 
free discussion. She carried the double shield of strength 
and weakness, availing herself of the privileges which Eu- 
ropean chivalry extends to a lady, while wielding the powerful 
weapons of a masculine understanding. To save himself from 
the terrors of her tongue, Bonaparte banished her from Paris. 
He next directed his vengeance against her works ; and it has 
been said that the annals of literary persecution contain nothing 
more extraordinary than that to which Madame de StaeFs 
writings were exposed by his watchful tyranny. Though her 
work on Germany was almost wholly literary, to the exclusion 
of politics, it was submitted to the censors, in obedience to a 
decree against the liberty of the press. They authorized its 
publication, but demanded the erasure of several passages, which 
were considered to be anti-despotic in their tendency. The 
exceptionable passages having been expunged, 10,000 copies 
were printed ; but gendarmes were sent to seize the impres- 
sions 3 the print was obliterated by a chemical process, and 
the restoration of the blank paper was the only indemnification 
afforded to the publisher. The manuscript was demanded j 
the authoress ordered to quit France in twenty-four hours ; 
and before all was over, she was forbidden to stir more than 
ten leagues in any direction from her house at Coppefc. M. 
de Stael, who had been recalled to Sweden in 1799, died three 
years afterwards at this retreat, attended by his lady, to whom 
he had just been reconciled after some years of separation. 

In 1810, a young Spaniard of the name of Rocca, an officer 
in the French army, visited Geneva in a state of great weak- 
ness, and suffering from wounds received in Spain. He was 



384 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

seized with an entliusiastic admiration for Madame de Stael, 
tliougli she was twenty years older than himself, and he in- 
duced her to marry him; but she never acknowledged the 
tie, or consented to change her name. Her situation becoming 
disconsolate and irksome in consequence of her being precluded 
even from receiving visits at Coppet, through the tyranny of 
Bonaparte, she escaped by secret flight into Russia, and thence 
passed through Sweden into England. Here she was courted 
by the most distinguished society, and effected the publication 
of her Germany, 

The abdication of Napoleon in 1814 enabled her to return 
to the continent, but she retreated to Coppet as soon as he re- 
appeared in Paris after his temporary residence at Elba. He 
now invited her to repair to the capital, in order to assist him 
in modelling a constitution ; but she replied : '' He did with- 
out either me or a constitution for twelve years, and has no 
liking for either of us.'^ However pleased with his final over- 
throw, her patriotism was deeply wounded by the allies entering 
La Belle France ; and she again retired to Coppet, to avoid 
witnessing the humiliating spectacle. E[ere she was visited 
in 1816 by Lord Byron, whose acquaintance she had made in 
England, and to whom she now addressed some lessons of 
worldly wisdom, especially with reference to his lady. When 
he quoted to her in reply a motto of her own, that ^^ a man 
ought to be able to brave public opinion, but a woman to 
submit to it" — she replied, that she feared both sexes would 
reap only evil from resistance. 

Madame de Stael's character softened as she advanced in 
years. Domestic affection, which was amply gratified in her 
husband and children, gradually supplanted the love of pablic 
activity and distinction, while religion lent its support as her 
health declined. She wasted gradually away, and died at 
Paris in 1817, in her fifty-second year. Eocca, whose chival- 



MADAME DE STAEL. 385 

rous attachment to her had continued in all its vigor, survived 
her but a few months. 

Madame de Stael, like other authors of that age, wrote on a 
great variety of subjects. Her Dix Annees d^ Exile is the most 
simple and interesting of her works. Her Considerations de 
la Revolution Frangaise, which was not published till after 
her death, is considered the most valuable of her political 
pieces, from its affording a description of the personal impres- 
sions made by that convulsion ; but the great preponderance 
of praise which she gives to her father (Necker), takes much 
from its impartiality. Among her works of fiction, Delpliine 
and Corinne have had the highest popularity; but, however 
admirable for subtle remark, vivid detail, and, above all, for 
singular power in the delineation of character, they are objec- 
tionable in a moral point of view, and her minor tales are still 
more faulty in this respect. Of all h^r works, L' AUemagne 
is considered worthy of the highest rank, and is that which 
was calculated most beneficially to influence the literature of 
her country. It is a treatise on the spirit, manners, and liter- 
ature of the Germans, a nation previously little appreciated 
in France, but with which this authoress made a personal 
acquaintance during the years of her exile. As a literary 
oritic, she extended her views to the essentials of excellence, 
disdaining the narrow-mindedness which makes criticism to 
consist in the detection of minute blemishes, and rising above 
that attention to mere forms which had always been the bane 
of this department of French authorship. There was perhaps 
no other country the picture of whose literature was calculated 
to be so useful to France ; and that, not because it afforded 
the best models for it to follow, but because it was so unlike 
French literature in its general characteristics, that the display 
of its riches tended to convey to a narrow-minded community 
a better idea of the extensive range which literature might 
embrace, than that of a country more congenial with their 



obb rEENCH LITERATURE. 

own could possibly have done. She thus encouraged the 
abandonment of the models to which the taste of France still 
adhered^ despite the shock of its political revolution. She 
taught her countrymen to blush for the pedantic exclusiveness 
with which they had circumscribed themselves; and her 
writings have perhaps, beyond all others, vanquished and 
subdued the derisive spirit of depreciating illiberality, which 
had tended to cripple genius more than to repel the encroach- 
ments of bad taste. She promoted enthusiasm to the place 
hitherto occupied by fastidiousness, and aided the man of 
genius in daring to be himself. Writers like Delavigne, La- 
martine, Beranger, De Vigny, and Victor Hugo, though in no 
respect imitators of Madame de Stael, are probably much in- 
debted to her for the stimulus to originality which her writings 
afforded. 

It is to be remarked, at the same time, that while Madame 
de Stael was liberal and enlightened, she was not wholly dis- 
passionate, and in her abhorrence of trivial criticism she some- 
times indulged in sweeping assertions, and broad classifications 
in defiance of facts. It must also be admitted, that too many 
rank and noxious weeds, as well as fair flowers and wholesome 
fruits, have resulted from her endeavors to fertilize the literary 
soil of her country ; that the demand for novelty and excite- 
ment has been carried to a vicious extreme; and that the lite- 
rary freedom which this lady promoted has degenerated into 
licentiousness. This we shall presently have occasion to notice 
in La Litterature Extravogaiiie. 

Madame de Stael was one of those great poets who are 
poetical only in prose. The mechanical difficulties of versifi- 
cation fettered her imagination, and in none of her professedly 
poetical compositions does she rise above mediocrity. But her 
prose writings abound with poetic ornaments of the most bril- 
liant kind. Corinney for instance, presents perhaps a greater 
abundance of examples of poetry in prose than any other single 



MADAME DE STAEL. 887 

work in tlie language. We have such a passage in the impro- 
visation of Corinne in the Capitol. This Corinne^ the most 
celebrated woman in Italy^ was to be crowned^ and according 
to the usage she must extemporize or recite some verses before 
she rec-eived on her head the destined laurels. '' She asks for 
her lyre/' tells the story, " which she prefers as resembling 
the harp, but being more antique in its form, and more simple 
in its music. And now, in a trembling voice, she inquires 
what her subject must be. ^The glory and the happiness of 
Italy !' was the unanimous response. ' Well, yes,' replied 
she, already kindling with the subject — Hhe glory and the 
happiness of Italy / and after this manner she sang in verses 
of which prose can afford but an imperfect idea : 

** Italie, empire du soleil ! Italie, maitresse du monde ! Italie, 
berceau des lettres, je te salue. Combien de fois la race humaine te 
fut soumise, tributaire de tes armes, de tes beaux-arts et de ton ciel ! 

Un dieu quitta rOlympe pour se refugier en Ausonie ; Taspect de 
ce pays fit rever les vertus de Page d'or, et rhomme y parut trop 
heureux pour I'y supposer coupable. 

Kome conquit I'univers par son genie, et fut reine par la liberty. 
Le caract^re romain s'imprima surle monde, et I'invasion des barbares, 
en detruisant I'ltalie, obscurcit I'univers entier. 

L' Italie reparut avec les divins tresors que les Grecs fugitifs 
rapportferent dans son sein ; le ciel lui revela ses lois ; I'audace de 
ses enfants decouvrit un nouvel hemisphere : elle fut reine encore 
par le sceptre de la pensee, mais ce sceptre de lauriers ne fit que des 
ingrats. 

L'imagination lui rendit Tunivers qu'elle avait perdu. Les peintres, 
les poetes, enfanterent pour elle une terre, un Olympe, des enfers et 
des cieux ; et le feu qui I'anime, mieux garde par son g^nie que par 
le dieu des paiens, ne trouva point dans I'Europe un Promethee qui 
le ravit. 

Pourquoi suis-je au Capitole ? pourquoi mon humble front va-t-il 
recevoir la couronne que Petrarque a portee, et qui reste suspendue 
au cypres funfebre du Tasse? pourquoi ... si vous n'aimiez assez la 
gloire, 6 mes concitoyensi pour recompenser son culte autant que 
ses succes ? 



388 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Eh bien, si vous I'aimez, cette gloire qui cboisife trop souvent ses 
victimes parmi les vainqueurs qu'elle a eouronnes, pensez avec 
orgueil a ces siecles qui virent la renaissance des arts ! Le Dante, 
THomere des temps modernes, poete sacre de nos mysteres religieux, 
heros de la pensee, plongea son genie dans le Styx pour aborder a 
I'enfer, et son ame fut profonde comme les abimes qu'il a decrits. 

L'ltalie, au temps de sa puissance, revit tout enti^i-e dans le Dante. 
Anime par I'esprit des republiques, guerrier aussi bien que poete, il 
souffle la flamme des actions parmi les morts, et ses ombres ont une 
vie plus forte que les vivants d'aujourd'hui. 

Les souvenirs de la terre les poursuivent encore ; leurs passions sans 
but s'acharnent a leur coeur; elles s^agitent sur le pass(!, qui leur 
semble encore moins irrevocable que leur eternel avenir. 

On dirait que le Dante, banni de son pays, a transports dans les 
regions imaginaires les peines qui le devoraient. Ses ombres deman- 
dent sans cesse des nouvelles de I'exlstence, comme le poete lui- 
meme s'informe de sa patrie, et I'enfer s'offi^ a lui sous les eouleurs 
de rexil. 

Tout, a ses yeux, se revet du costume de Florence. Les morts qu'i! 
evoque semblent renaitre aussi Tosoans que lui ; ce ne sont point les 
bornes de son esprit, c'est la force de son 4ime qui fnYt entrer Tunivers 
dans le cercle de sa pensee. 

Un encbainement mystique de cercles et de spheres le conduit de 
I'enfer au purgatoire, du purgatoire an paradis ; historien fidMe de 
sa vision, il inonde de clarte les regions les plus obscures, et le monde 
qu'il cree dans son triple poeme est complet, animS, brillant comme 
nne plan^te nouvelle, aper9ue dans le firmament. 

A sa voix, tout sur la terre se change en poesie : les objcts, les idees, 
les lois, les phSnom^nes, semblent un nouvel Olympe, de nouvelles 
divinites ; mais cette mythologie de Timo^gination s'anSantit comme le 
paganisme a I'aspect du paradis, de cet ocean de lumiere, etincelant 
de rayons et d'etoiles, de vcrtus et d'amour. 

Les magiques paroles de notre plus grand poete sont le prismc de 
I'univers ; toutes ses merveilles s'y refl(5chissent, s'y divisent, s'y 
recomposent; les sons imitent les eouleurs, les eouleurs se fondent 
en harmonic ; la rime, sonore ou bizarre, rapide ou prolongee, est 
inspiree par cette divination poetique, bcaute supreme de Fart, 
triomphe du gSnie, qui docouvre dans la nature tons les secrets en 
relation avec le coeur de Thomme. 



MADAME DE STAEL. 389 

Le Dante esperait de son poeme la fin de son exil ; il comptait sur 
la renommee pour m<^diatrice ; mais il mourut trop tot pour recueillir 
les palmes de la patrie. Souvent la vie passagere de Thomrae 
s'use dans les revers ; et si la gloire triomphe, si Ton aborde enfin 
sur une plage plus heureuse, la tombe s'ouvre derriere le port, et le 
destin a mille formes annonce souvent la fin de la vie par le retour du 
bonheur. 

Ainsi le Tasse infortune, que vos hommages, Eomains, devaient 
consoler de tant d'injustices, beau, sensible, chevaleresque, revant les 
exploits, eprouvant I'amour qu'il cbantait, s'approcha de ces murs, 
comme ses heros de Jerusalem, avec respect et reconnaissance. Mais 
la veille du jour choisi pour le couronner, la mort I'a reclame pour sa 
terrible fete : le ciel est jaloux de la terre, et rappelle ses favoris des 
rives trompeuses du temps. 

Dans un si^cle plus fier et plus libre que celui du Tasse, Petrarque 
fut aussi, comme le Dante, le poete valeureux de I'independance 
italienne. Ailleurs on ne connait de lui que ses amours ; ici des 
souvenirs plus severes honorent a jamais son nom ; et la patrie I'in- 
spira mieux que Laure elle-meme. 

II ranima I'antiquite par ses veilles, et, loin que son imagination 
mit obstacle aux etudes les plus profondes, cette puissance creatrice, 
en lui soumettant I'avenir, lui revela les secrets des siecles passes. 
II eprouva que connaitre sert beaucoup pour inventer, et son g^nie 
fut d'autant plus original, que, semblable aux forces eternelles, il fut 
present a tons les temps. 

Notre air serein, notre climat riant, ont inspire I'Arioste. C'est 
I'arc-en-ciel qui parut apres nos longues guerres : brillant et vari^ 
comme ce messager du beau temps, il semble se jouer familierement 
avec la vie, et sa gaiete legere et douce est le sourire de la nature, et 
non pas I'ironie de I'homme. 

Michel-Ange, Raphael, Pergol^se, Galilee, et vous, intr^pides voya- 
geurs avides de nouvelles contrees, bien que leur nature ne put vous 
ofi'rir rien de plus beau que la votre, joignez aussi votre gloire a celle 
des poetes! Artistes, savants, philosophes, vous etes comme eux 
enfants de ce soleil qui, tour a tour, developpe I'imagination, anime 
la pensee, excite le courage, endort dans le bonheur, et semble tout 
promettre ou tout faire oublier. 

Connaissez-vous cette terre oii les orangers fleurissent, que les 
rayons des cieux fecondeut avec amour ? Avez-vous entendu les sons 
33 * 



S90 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

m^lodieux qui c^lebrent la douceur des nuits ? Avez-vous respir^ ces 
parfums, luxe de I'air deja si pur et si doux ? Kepondez, strangers ! 
la nature est-elle chez vous belle et bienfaisante ? 

Ailleurs, quand les calamit6s sociales affligent un pays, les peuples 
doivent s'y croire abandonnes par la Bivinite ; mais ici nous sentons 
toujours la protection du ciel, nous voyons qu'il s'interesse a Fhomme, 
et qu'il a daigne le traiter comme une noble creature. 

Ce n'est pas seulement de pampres et d'epis que notre nature est 
paree ; mais elle prodigue sous les pas de I'homme, comme a la fete 
d'un souverain, une abondance de fleurs et de plantes inutiles, qui, 
destinees a plaire, ne s'abaissent point a servir. 

Les plaisirs delicats, soignes par la nature, sont gout6s par une 
nation digne de les sentir; les mets les plus simples lui suffisent; 
elle ne s'enivre point aux fontaines de vin que Fabondance lui pre- 
pare : elle aime son soleil, ses beaux-arts, ses monuments, sa contree 
tout ^ la fois antique et printaniere ; les plaisirs rafiSnes d'une society 
brillante, les plaisirs grossiers d'un peuple aTide, ne sont pas fails 
pour elle. 

Ici, les sensations se confondent avec les idees, la vie se puise tout 
cnti^re a la meme source, et Tame, comme Fair, occupe les confins de 
la terre et du ciel. Ici le genie se sent a False parce que la reverie 
y est douce ; s'il agite, elle calrae ; s'il regrette un but, elle lui fait 
don de mille chimeres ; si les hommes Foppriment, la nature est 1^ 
pour Faccueillir. 

Ainsi toujours elle repare, et sa main secourable guerit toutes les 
blessures. Ici Fon se console des peines meme du coeur, en admirant 
un Dieu de bont6, en penetrant le secret de son amour ; les revers 
passagers de notre vie ^phem^re se perdent dans le sein fecond et 
majestueux de Firamortel uoivers.' 

Corinne fut interrompue pendant quelques moments par les applau- 
dissements les plus imp6tueux. Le seul Oswald ne se mela point 
aux transports br.uyants qui Fentouraient. II avait pench^ sa tete 
sur sa main, lorsque Corinne avait dit : Ici Von se console des peines 
m&me du coeur ; et depuis lors il ne Favait point relevee. Corinne le 
I'cmarqua, et bientot a ses traits, a la couleur de ses cheveux, a son 
costume, a sa taille elev^e, a toutes ses manit;res enfin, elle le recon- 
nut pour un Anglais. Le deuil qu'il portait et sa physionomie pleino 
de tristesse la frapp^rent. Son regard, alors attach^ sur elle, semblait 
Ini faire dovicement dos re'^roches ; ollc dcvina les pens^es qui FoccU' 



MADAME DE STAEL. 391 

paient, et se sentit le besoin de le satisfaire, en parlant du bonlieur 
avec moins d'assurance, en consacrant a la mort quelques vers au 
milieu d'une fete. EUe reprit done sa lyre dans ce dessein, fit rentrer 
dans le silence toute I'assembl^e par les sons touchants et prolonges 
qu'elle tira de son instrument, et recommen^a ainsi : 

* II est des peines cependant que notre ciel consolateur ne saurait 
efi*acer; mais dans quel sejour les regrets peuvent-ils porter a I'ame 
une impression plus douce et plus noble que dans ces lieux ? 

Ailleurs, les vivants trouvent a peine assez de place pour leurs 
rapides courses et leurs ardents d^sirs ; ici, les mines, les deserts, les 
palais inhabites, laissent aux ombres un vaste espace. Pvome main- 
tenant n'est-elle pas la patrie des tombeaux ? 

Le Colisee, les obelisques, toutes les merveilles qui, du fond de 
TEgypte et de la Grece, de I'extremite des siecles, depuis Romulus 
jusqu'a Leon X., se sont reunies ici, comme si la grandeur attirait la 
grandeur, et qu'un meme lieu dut renfermer tout ce que rhomme a 
pu mettre a I'abri du temps ; toutes ces merveilles sont consacrees 
aux monuments fun^bres; notre indolente vie est a peine aperyue; 
le silence des vivants est un hommage pour les morts : ils durent, et 
nous passons. 

Eux seuls sont honoris, eux seuls sont encore celebres ; nos 
destinees obscures relevent I'eclat de nos ancetres ; notre existence 
actuelle ne laisse debout que le pass^ ; il ne se fait aucun bruit 
autour des souvenirs. Tons nos chefs-d'oeuvre sont I'ouvrage de 
ceux qui ne sont plus, et le genie lui-meme est compte parmi les 
illustres morts. 

Peut-etre un des charmes de Rome est-il de reconcilier I'imagination 
avec le long sommeil. On s'y resigne pour soi, Ton en souflfre moins 
pour ce qu'on aime. Les peuples du Midi se representent la fin de la 
vie sous des couleurs moins sombres que les habitants du Nord. Le 
Boleil, comme la gloire, rechaufi'e meme la tombe. 

Le froid et I'isolement du sepulcre sous ce beau ciel, a cdt6 de tant 
d'urnes funeraires, poursuivent moins les esprits efi*ray^s ; on se croit 
attendu par la foule des ombres ; et, de notre ville solitaire a la ville 
souterraine, la transition semble assez douce. 

Ainsi la pointe de la douleur semble emouss^e ; non que le coeur 
soit blase, non que Fame soit aride ; mais une harmonic plus parfaite, 
un air plus odoriferant, se melent a I'existence. On s'abandonne a 
la nature avec moins de crainte, a cette nature dont le Cr^ateur a 



392 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

dit : Les lis ne travaillent ni ne filent ; et cependant quels vetements 
des rois pourraient ^galer la magnificence dont j'ai revetu ces 
fleurs ?' '' 

Another female author — not, indeed, worthy of comparison 
with Madame de Stael in respect of talent, but who lived, like 
her, through the Revolution, and exercised an influence on pub- 
lic events — was Madame de Genlis (1746-1830), a ladj of 
poor but noble family, and niece to Madame de Montesson, 
whom the Duke of Orleans had privately married. Through 
the influence of her aunt, this lady obtained the appointment 
of maid of honor to the Duchess de Chartres, and afterwards 
of governess to her children, of whom one, it will be recollected, 
was the late Louis-Philippe. 

The political power of this lady did not depend on her pen, 
but on her private influence in the Orleans family, which she 
used against the Bourbons. She was, consequently, forced to 
emigrate in 1792; found favor under Napoleon; but sunk 
into obscurity again at the restoration of the Bourbon family, 
though saved from want by a pension from the house of 
Orleans. Her works, which extend to at least eighty volumes, 
are chiefly educational treatises, moral tales, and historical 
romances, furnishing what was certainly a desideratum in those 
days — a supply of safe reading, in a moral point of view, for 
young people. * 

M. LE VicOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND must be placed side 
by side with Madame de Stael, as another of those brilliant and 
versatile geniuses who have dazzled the eyes of their country- 
men, and exerted a permanent influence on French literature. 
In each of his capacities as minister, diplomatist, orator, poet, 
traveller, theologian, novelist, journalist, pamphleteer, he en- 
gaged attention, and frequently commanded admiration ; in all 
there was a combination of unity with variety; in all he was 
the same rash, ardent, imaginative, and eloquent Chateau- 



CHATEAUBRIAND. 393 

briand. He was born in 1769; the youngest of ten cliildren ; 
passed his childhood amidst the woods that suiTounded his 
paternal mansion ; was well instructed in theology, with a view 
to his becoming an ecclesiastic ; but entered the army at an 
early age, as he manifested no predilection for the sacred voca- 
tion. He quitted the service, however, at the commencement 
of the French Revolution ; and after indulging somewhat in 
pastoral poetry, passed over to America, in whose civilized 
communities he hoped to find the liberty for which his coun- 
trymen were panting, and in whose boundless forests, a veri- 
fication of those rhapsodies of Rousseau which had taken a 
powerful hold of his youthful imagination. He returned on 
hearing of the arrest of Louis XVI. at Varennes, and chival- 
rously determined to devote himself to the royal cause. But 
the struggle was hopeless ; and after being wounded at Thion- 
ville, he fled to England, where he remained several years. 
In 1801, he returned to France, determined to raise a literary 
monument to the faith which had consoled him during the 
reverses of his life. 

The terrors of the French Revolution, the disastrous extrava- 
gances which had accompanied that worst of all fanaticisms — 
the bigotry of infidelity — had produced a strong reaction on 
the more refined and imaginative circles of France. Never, 
perhaps, were the consolations arising from a belief in a future 
state so ardently longed for as among the generation that sur- 
vived the Reign of Terror. The guillotine, the wars, the con- 
scriptions, had left few without some to mourn, and the hope 
of a better world indicated a greater blessing than any that 
earth could aifford ; but deism kept its stronghold among the 
leading intellects of the day, and no one dared to advocate 
what every one wished. At this juncture, Chateaubriand 
stepped forward, an author whose talents no critic could call in 
question, and whose eloquence all men could understand, to 
cherish these ^^ longings after immortality,^' and to verify the 



S94 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

saying, that when the many desire a leader, the voice of 
Heaven sometimes directs them to a poet. Before publishing 
the Genie du Christianisme, he sent forth several religious 
novels, of which the most celebrated is Atala, to which he 
prefixed a recital of the circumstances which had led himself 
to seek peace of mind in the Christian faith. He made his 
appeal, not to the wisdom of the savans^ but to the feelings 
of an excitable people; he did not argue the evidences of 
Christianity, but he rushed in a tide of passion and poetry 
into hearts ready to receive him, and into these bleeding hearts 
he carried the consolations of Christianity. ^^ Je n'ai point 
cede,'' he says, ^' a de grandes lumieres surnaturelles, ma con- 
viction est sorti du cosur — ^j'ai pleure, et j'ai cru.'' The popu- 
lar feeling echoed the egotism ; the people too, had wept, and 
were therefore willing to believe. 

Madame de Stael, who had many qualities in common with 
Chateaubriand, had also a strong a poetic feeling of religion ; 
but her writings only implied and hoped what Chateaubriand 
asserted and promised. It was by advancing one step further 
than she had done, that he gained the heart of the French 
nation. 

Atala elicited a burst of astonishment and admiration, and 
seldom has public sympathy arisen to the same degree of deli- 
rium. Innumerable editions and translations into difi'erent 
languages spread the fame of the author in a few months from 
Lisbon to St. Petersburg; the Greek read it on the Propylaea; 
and it is said even that the sultanas of the East wept over the 
misfortunes of the daughter of Simaghan in the solitude of 
the harems. This much lauded work is a short tale of simple 
structure, bearing, in common with Rene and Les NatcfieZy on 
savage life in the forests of North America. Atala is a Chris 
tian, the daughter of a European ; she liberates the Indian, 
Chactas; flies with him, and labors with some success for his 
conversion. A mutual attachment springs up; but Atala has 



CHATEAUBRIAND. 395 

taken a vow of celibacy ; and not knowing that the Roman 
Catholic missionary has the power as well as the will, to pro- 
cure her release, she swallows poison to end her miserable 
existence. The tale, it seems to ns, defeats its own end. The 
priest's laudation of the virtue of celibacy does not tell so well 
in favor of it, as the unhappy consequence of the vow tells 
against it. 

Les MarfyrSj a prose epic on the theme of the sufferings of 
Christians in the reigns of Diocletian and Galerius, is con- 
sidered the best of Chateaubriand's fictions ; ill constructed as 
a story, but abounding in eloquent passages and fine displays 
of descriptive talent. 

The Genie du Christianisme was the crowning work of a 
series in which the religious views of the author are prominent 
and pervading. It has been characterized as '' a work of emi- 
nent eloquence and much research, yet one of the most 
unequal and unsatisfactory productions of genius that have 
been witnessed in modern times. Full of brilliant beauties 
and glaring defects — passages which all must admire, and 
errors that might be detected by a child— excellent in inten- 
tion, yet so executed as to draw down the reprobation even of 
those who are most zealous in the cause the writer has under- 
taken to defend.'' The author thus announces the object he 
had in view. '' It had been maintained," he says, " that 
Christianity was a religion sprung from barbarism, absurd in 
its doctrines, ridiculous in its ceremonies, and hostile to the 
progress of arts and literature.'^ Accordingly, he undertakes 
to prove, that of all religions that have ever existed, Chris- 
tianity is the most poetical, the most favorable to liberty, to 
the arts, and to literature , that the modern world owes every- 
thing to this religion, from agriculture to abstract science, 
from the humblest refuge of the unfortunate, to the temples 
embellished by Michael Angelo ; that it fosters talent, purifies 
taste, and invigorates thought ; that it supplies noble images 



396 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

to the writer, and perfect models to the artist; and that it is 
desirable to summon all the enchantments of imagination, and 
all the interests of the heart, to aid that religion which they 
have hitherto been employed to oppose. The intention was 
certainly good ; the author saw that both in literature and in 
the fine arts no models were recognised except those of Greece 
and Rome ; and that this invariable use of classic symbols, and 
this incessant appeal to classical models among a people on 
whom outward forms have so great an influence, was tending 
to confirm them in the prevailing anti-Christian feeling. 
While deism was thus captivating its proselytes with the 
classic beauties of heathen fable, he strove to counteract the 
poison by displaying the beauties of Christian truth, hoping 
that if he did not convince their reason, at least he might 
captivate their tastes. It was by such means that he expected 
to silence the ablest opponents that ever directed the weapons 
of perverted reason against the evidences of religion ; and it 
seems never to have occurred to him, that he was condescend- 
ing to occupy very humble ground in the controversy, and 
that such a line of defence might be derogatory to the great 
cause he had undertaken to advocate. He seems never to 
have questioned whether it was advantageous to religion to 
treat it as if it were one of the fine arts. Nevertheless, the 
work succeeded to admiration; at least in securing readers. 
Six editions were printed in one year in France alone ; and it 
is believed that, with all its weakness, as it appears to us, it 
really did prove the commencement of a religious reaction, 
which has continued under various forms, though not so 
extensively as could be desired, to the present day. Fain 
would we hope and believe that if this writer, or any other of 
equal power, had grasped the great truths of the Christian 
revelation, and displayed them in their saving and sanctifying 
influence, instead of spending the strength of his genius in 
the cause of monastic vows, prayers to saints, and such like. 



CHATEAUBRIAND. 897 

there might have been a truly national return to this religious 
feeling, with a spirit of enlightened freedom. But, unfortu- 
nately, while in government, literature, and everything else, it 
had been deemed necessary to re-establish matters on a footing 
corresponding to the views of freedom which had taken posses- 
sion of the public mind, no one seemed to think of any resto- 
ration of religion other than a return to the bonds which were 
so cheerfully worn in the seventeenth century. 

The genius of M. Chateaubriand has unquestionably been 
very inaccurately estimated by those who measure the height 
of an author by the shadow of his celebrity. Some of his 
characteristics have doubtless produced a seriously injurious 
effect on French literature ; and of these, one of the most con- 
tagious, and the most corrupting, is his passion for the glitter 
of words, and the pageantry of high-sounding phrases. His 
maxim was, that an ^^ author survives only by style ;'^ and 
accordingly, his own is in the highest degree artificial and 
theatrical. The expression always excites more attention than 
the thought; and even as the sculptors in the later days of 
Rome deteriorated in grace and vigor, in proportion as they 
lavished their attention upon the draperies rather than the 
figures, so M. Chateaubriand appears feeble in proportion as 
he labors to be effective. Nothing is more destructive to a 
quick intuition and a firm grasp of truth, than an overfastidi- 
ous selection of phrases. But this influence on the reader is 
not the worst. In striving to say fine things, he often says 
false ones ; anxious chiefly to astonish his readers, he is little 
scrupulous about the means, and is not seldom guilty of sacri- 
ficing a truth to a prettiness. 

This author, however, is not to be blamed as a leader of the 
modern Litterature Extravagante. As we shall presently see, 
the exaggeration of the latter is that of character and passion, 
not of style and phrase ; the vivid fancy and glowing declama- 
tion of Chateaubriand were never prostrated in the cause of 
34 



398 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

vice. Above all, lie is always a gentlemen ; and thougli often 
in the clouds, he is never in the mire. Yet he seems to be 
answerable for having set the fashion of stringing together de- 
clamations upon feeling and sentiment, instead of exhibiting 
the play of great passions; rendering subjects which ought to 
be gravely examined and deeply felt, the lay-figures for tawdry 
and ill-placed rhetoric. The false system which he commenced 
for virtuous objects has been pressed into the service of vice, 
by writers who have neither his heart nor his intellect. 

Chateaubriand has no great merit as a literary critic. He is 
a very Frenchman in his estimate of the productions of other 
nations. '' Si nous jugeons avec impartialite/' says he, ^^ les 
ouvrages etrangers et les notres, nous trouverons toujours une 
immense superiorite du cote de la litterature Frangaise.'' And 
so he views with horror the progress of a taste for Shakspeare 
among his countrymen. 

"Le penchant pour Shakspeare est bien plus dangereux en France 
qu'en Angleterre. Chez les Anglois il n'y a qu'ignorance, chez nous 
il y a depravation. Celui qui aime la laideur n'est pas fort loin 
d' aimer le vice: quiconque est insensible a la beaute peut bien 
meconnoitre la vertu. Le mauvais gout et le vice marchent presque 
toujours ensemble : le premier n'est que I'expression du second, comme 
la parole rend la pensee." 

Few Englishmen will thank him for such strictures. 

It has been remarked of his History of English Literature^ 
that its plan is radically erroneous ; but many of its episodes 
are admirable. Its faults are those of the whole ; its beauties 
those of detail. His remarks on the characteristics of the 
middle ages, upon the intellectual calibre of Luther, upon the 
life and genius of Milton, and upon Mirabeau, contain passages 
of graphic conciseness which redeem a thousand faults. Even 
his egotisms are not unpleasing ; he is a man whose account 
of himself posterity will not disdain to hear. He excels, too, 



CHATEAUBRIAND. 899 

in local description^ wliicli constitutes a large part of the merit 
of his novels, and renders his travels agreeable in spite of their 
inaccuracy. The following picture of Jerusalem may be quoted 
as an example : — 

Vue de la montagne des Oliviers, de I'autre cote de la vallee de 
Josaphat, Jerusalem presente un plan incline sur un sol qui descend 
du couchant au levant. Une muraille crenelee, fortifiee par des tours 
et par un chateau gothique, enferme la ville dans son entier, laissant 
toutefois au dehors une partie de la montagne de Sion, qu'elle em- 
brassait autrefois. 

Dans la region du couchant et au centre de la ville, vers le Cal- 
vaire, les maisons se serrent d'assez pr^s ; mais au levant, le long de 
la vallee de Cedron, on aper9oit des espaces vides, entre autres I'en- 
ceinte qui r^gne autour de la mosquee batie sur les debris du Temple, 
et le terrain presque abandonn^ ou s'elevaient le chateau Antonia et 
le second palais d'Herode. 

Les maisons de Jerusalem sont de lourdes masses carrees, fort 
basses, sans cherainees et sans fenetres ; elles se terminent en ter- 
rasses aplaties ou en domes, et elles ressemblent a des prisons ou a des 
sepulcres. Tout seroit a I'oeil d'un niveau egal, si les clochers des 
eglises, les minarets des mosquees, les cimes de quelques cypres et 
les buissons de nopals ne rompaient I'uniformite du plan. A la vue 
de ces maisons de pierres, renfermees dans un paysage de pierres, on 
se demande si ce ne sont pas la les monuments confus d'un cimetiere 
au milieu d'un desert ? 

Entrez dans la ville, rien ne vous consolera de la tristesse exte- 
rieure : vous vous egarez dans de petites rues non pavees, qui montent 
et descendent sur un sol in^gal, et vous marchez dans des flots de 
poussiere, ou parmi des cailloux roulants. Des toiles jetees d'une 
maison a I'autre augmentent I'obscurit^ de ce labyrinthe ; des bazars 
voutes et infects achevent d'oter la lumiere a la ville desolee ; quel- 
ques chetives boutiques n'etalent aux yeux que la misere ; et souvent 
ces boutiques meme sont fermees, dans la crainte du passage d'ur 
cadi. Personne dans les rues, personne aux portes de la ville ; quel- 
quefois seulement un paysan se glisse dans I'ombre, cachant sous ses 
habits les fruits de son labeur, dans la crainte d'etre depouille par le 
soldat ; dans un coin a I'ecart, le boucher arabe ^gorge quelque bete 
Buspendue par les pieds a un mur en ruine : a Fair hagard et f^roco 



400 



FRENCH LITERATURE. 



de cet homme, a ses bras ensanglant^s, vous croiriez qu'il vient plutot 
de tuer son semblable, que d'immoler un agneau. Pour tout bruit 
dans la cite deicide, on entend par intervalles le galop de la cavale du 
desert : c'est le janissaire qui apporte la tete du Bedouin, ou qui va 
piller le Fellah. 

Here is a night-scene in the forests of America : — 

Un soir je m'etais ^gare dans une foret, a quelque distance de la 
cataracte de Niagara; bientot je vis le jour s'eteindre autour de moi, 1 
et je goiitai, dans toute sa solitude, le beau spectacle d'une nuit dans 
les deserts du Nouveau-Monde. 

Une heure apr^s le coucher du soleil, la lune se montra au-dessus 
des arbres, a I'horizon oppose. Une brise embaumee, que cette reine 
des nuits amenait de I'orient avec elle, semblait la preceder dans les 
forets comme sa fraiche haleine. L'astre solitaire monta pen a peu 
dans le ciel : tantot il suivait paisiblement sa course azuree ; tantot 
il reposait sur des groupes de nues qui ressemblaient a la cime de 
hautes montagnes couronnes de neige. Ces nues, ployant et d^ployant 
leurs voiles, se deroulaient en zones diaphanes de satin blanc, se dis- 
persaient en legers flocons d'^cume, ou formaient dans les cieux des 
bancs d'une ouate eblouissante, si doux, a I'oeil, qu'on croyait ressen- 
tir leur mollesse et leur elasticite. 

La scene sur la terre n'^tait pas moins ravissante : le jour bleuatre 
et veloute de la lune descendait dans les intervalles des arbres, et 
poussait des gerbes de lumiere jusque dans I'epaisseur des plus pro- 
fondes tenebres. La riviere qui coulait a mes pieds, tour ^ tour se 
perdait dans le bois, tour a tour reparaissait brillante des constel- 
lations de la nuit, qu'elle rep^tait dans son sein. Dans une savane, 
de I'autre cote de la riviere, la clart^ de la lune dormait sans mouve- 
ment sur les gazons : des bouleaux agit^s par les brises, et disperses 
9a, et la, formaient des iles d'ombres flottantes sur cette mer immobile 
de lumifere. Aupr^s, tout aurait ^t^ silence et repos, sans la chute 
de quelques feuilles, le passage d'un vent subit, le g^missement 
de la hulotte ; au loin par intervalles, on entendait les sourds mugis- 
scment de la cataracte de Niagara, qui, dans le calme de la nuit, se 
prolongeaient de d6sert en d6sert, et expiraient a travers les forets 
solitaires. 

Napoleon was not slow to perceive the importance of attach- 
ing to his government a man who wielded so powerful an influ- 



CHATEAUBRIAND. 401 

ence; and after tlie signature of the Concordat^ Chateaubriand 
was appointed first-secretary of the French embassy to Rome. 
During his sojourn in Italy, he sent, in the shape of letters to 
M. de Fontanes, some rich contributions of anecdote and classic 
recollection, most of which appeared in the Mercury of France, 
Napoleon's assumption of the crown, and the murder of the 
Due d'Enghien, decided Chateaubriand not to remain in his 
service; he sent in his resignation on the same day that he 
heard of the tragedy, and Napoleon had the wisdom not only to 
abstain from persecuting him, but to make new advances. They 
were rejected, however; and our author soon afterwards began 
that tour through Italy, Greece, Egypt, and the Holy Land, 
which he afterwards so eloquently narrated. On his return to 
his native country, he ventured to become a journalist, not- 
withstanding the thraldom under which the press then labored; 
but some of his expressions having excited the displeasure of 
Napoleon, the work was suppressed. Meanwhile, he was grow- 
ing in the estimation of French litterateurs, and a vacancy 
having occurred in the Institute by the death of Chenier, he 
was elected a member. But a condition attached to every 
election was a panegyric on the predecessor, and Chenier the 
revolutionist being an uncongenial subject to Chateaubriand, 
he reversed the disobedience of Balaam, produced an anathema 
instead of a eulogium, and consequently found his election an- 
nulled, and himself ordered to quit Paris. On the restoration 
of the Bourbons in 1814, he was appointed ambassador to 
Sweden, and continued at various intervals to fill official situa- 
tions in the ministry or diplomacy down to the Revolution of 
1830, when, vowing eternal fidelity to the elder branch of the 
Bourbon family, he refused to take the oath of allegiance to 
Louis-Philippe, and renounced his seat in the Chamber of 
Peers. The remainder of his life was chiefly occupied in 
literary labor; and he died in 1848, in the eightieth year of 
his age. 

34* 



402 FRENCH LITERATURE. 



XXIIL— A NEW CAREER. 

HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY — SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY — LITERARY CRITICISM 
— NEW FEATURES IN POETRY — NOVELS AND PLAYS. 

Since tlie peace of 1814^ all the great questions which 
agitate the human mind have been studied over again — reli- 
gion, morality, theories of psychology, metaphysics, esthetics, 
political economy, legislation, and government; yet, it must 
be confessed, with no very definite or satisfactory result. The 
general character of the literature which has prevailed during 
this period, is thus described in the Edinburgh Revieio, which 
we prefer quoting, to embodying any views of our own : — 

^^We perceive in the whole literature of the restoration, 
when we look back on it calmly, a literature of contention and 
indecision, an oscillation between two opinions, or an awkward 
and unsatisfying compromise between both. The same strife 
which in politics prevails between the partisans of things as 
they were, of things as they are, and of things as the sanguine 
and inexperienced think they should be, which in religion 
shows itself in the contests between the Jesuits, the moderate 
religious reformers^ and those who, like the St. Simonians, are 
determined to have at once a new heaven as well as a new 
earth, indicates itself also in literature, in the combats of 
classicism and romanticism, the liberalism and legitimatism of 
thought, and in the juste milieu system which would blend 
these heterogeneous elements with each other. Now one 
appears to be in the ascendant, now the other ; and as in the 
case of the rival popes, fulminating bulls against each other 
from Rome and Avignon, none knows where the successorship 
of St. Peter is truly vested : the principles of taste, nay, the 
foundations of morals from which those principles flow, are 
left to the arbitration of conflicting tribunals, each claiming 



HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. 403 

supreme authority^ and reversing without ceremony tlie deci- 
sions of the other/' 

Under these circumstances, combined with the immense 
number of authors and their appalling fecundity, it would be a 
puzzling task to attempt anything like a satisfactory examina- 
tion of the literature of this period. It must suffice to single 
out a few of its more prominent features."^ 

The first we notice is the immense advances which have 
been made in history and biography. It may be sufficient to 
point out among the earlier specimens of enlightened industry 
in this field, the voluminous works of Sismondi, and the 
Biogropliie Universelle, in fifty-two closely printed volumes, 
undoubtedly the most valuable body of biography that any 
modern literature can boast. 

It may afford some idea of the organization of this great 
work, to mention that it was set on foot in 1810 by a numer- 
ous association of booksellers and capitalists ; but after some 
years fell into the hands of a single editor, and was brought 
to a conclusion in 1828. During this interval, more than 300 
collaborateurs, whose names are placed at the end of their 
respective articles, were employed on it. Few of the celebra- 
ted names of the age but appear in this way ; and yet, by a 
wise endeavor to suppress or amalgamate individual opinions, 
there has been attained, perhaps, as much homogeneity as 
could fairly be demanded. 

Since the Revolution of 1830, historians and literary critics 
have occupied the foreground in French literature. The 

* It has been deemed the less necessary to enlarge here, as the Messrs. 
Chambers have published a People's Edition of the excellent little treatise 
of M. Vericour on Modern French Literature, occupied chiefly with that 
of the present age. 

[An edition of this work, revised by W. S. Chace, was published by 
Gould, Kendall & Lincoln, at Boston, in 18^8.] 



404 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

historians have divided themselves into two schools, which they 
designate the descriptive and the philosophic ; the former 
attaching themselves to graphic narrative, the latter to philo- 
sophic analysis. With the one class, history consists of a 
narration of facts in connexion with a picture of manners in 
such wise as to bring the scenes of the past vividly before the 
mind of the reader^ leaving him to form his own conclusions, 
and to deduce general truths from the particular ones thus 
laid before him. The style of these writers is simple, naif, 
and manly ; there is no straining after effect, no use of mere- 
tricious ornament, no opinions of the writer shining through 
his statements. The most eminent professed authors of this 
class are Monsieur Thierry, in his Letters on the History of 
France J and the Conquest of England hy the Normans; 
Bar ANTE in his Litter ature Frangaise au dix-huitibme Siecle, 
and Les Dues de Bourgogne ; Villemain's Cromwell; and 
the Historical Sketches of Alexandre Dumas; De Vigny's 
historical novels of Cinq Mars and Stello. They look upon 
Sir Walter Scott as their great master. 

The philosophical school, on the other hand, consider this 
scenic kind of narrative as of very inferior value. They relate 
the events of the past chiefly in order to arrive at general 
conclusions which may serve to direct the conduct of men in 
the future. They discuss while they narrate, and history in 
their hands is more a lesson than a pastime. At the head of 
this school is M. GuizOT, who has displayed the philosophic 
mode in his History of the Civilization of Europe, Essays on 
the History of France , and the English Revolution. Thiers 
and Mignet, both of whom have written on the French Kevo- 
lution, are the most eminent of Guizot's school; while all of 
them resemble the celebrated German Niebuhr, and the En- 
glish Gibbon and Mill. The philosophical historians have been 
again divided according to their different theories, but the 
most eminent of them are those whom M. Chateaubriand calls 



MTCHELET — QUINET. 405 

fatalists ; men who, having surveyed the course of public 
events, have come to the conclusion, that individual character 
has had little influence on the political destinies of mankind ; 
that there is a general, active, continuous, and inevitable 
series of events which regularly succeed each other, with the 
certainty of cause and effect, and that it is as easy to trace as 
it is impossible to resist or divert it from its course. A ten- 
dency to these views is more or less visible in almost every 
French historian or philosopher of the present time ; but some 
carry them much further than others. Guizot says of himself, 
that, '^ in the individual he finds the species, and in the nation 
the whole of humanity.^' The philosophy of history, grounded 
on such views, as distinguished from the philosophy of man^s 
individual nature, has assumed the aspect of a science in the 
hands of recent French historians. But it has too often hap- 
pened, that when they would point out an important truth, 
they have enunciated it in such mystified expressions, have 
attached to it so many wild hypotheses, and have been so little 
careful to examine rather than declaim, that very little real 
progress has been made towards a truly scientific exposition of 
history. Meanwhile, they have displayed admirable patience 
in searching after their evidence ; and if they have done little 
to advance the philosophy of history beyond the accumulation 
of facts, this at least is a valuable result of their labors. 

MiCHELET and Quinet call themselves the symbolical school 
of historians, and profess to combine the descriptive with the 
philosophic. The leading peculiarity of their works appears 
in their opposition to Jesuitism, which, they maintain, has 
betrayed the Roman Catholic Church, and may betray Chris- 
tianity itself, into the hands of its enemies. Michelefs 
principal works are — the Life of Luther ; the Life of Vico; 
a Histori/ of France ; a Roman History ; a Compendium of 
3Iodern Histori/ ; besides FriestSj Women and Families ; the 



406 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

People; and several smaller works, wliich are well known 
among us through the medium of translations. Quinet has 
written the Genius of Religions; Germany and Italy; 
Discourses on the Literatures of the South of Europe; My 
Holidays in Spain ; Ultramontanism — a work which electri- 
fied France, and roused bitter opposition; which, however, 
did not prevent the gifted author from adding Christianity 
and the French Revolution, an inquiry into the operations of 
the Almighty in the progress of society. 

Literary criticism in connexion with history has recently 
occupied a large space in the field of French literature. Not 
to dwell on Sismondi^s Literature of Southern Europe, which 
appeared as one of the first fruits of the peace of 1815, with 
the almost contemporary work of Ginguene on Italian litera- 
ture, and Renouard on Provencal poetry, there have been 
and still are in the field a host of authors, whose chief study 
has been the literature of their own country — such as Guizot, 
St. Beuve, Villemain, Nisard, Vinet,* and Barante, to whose 
pages our own have been highly indebted. 

If to the historians and literary critics we add the investiga- 
tors of science — such as Cuvier, Arago, Dupin, Raoul-Rochette, 
Royer-Collard, Segur, Biot, and others of similar stamp — we 
have before us the men who form the intellectual glory of their 
age and nation. 

As it regards speculative philosophy, M. Damiron has ranged 
the various authors whose opinions he has analyzed under three 
schools — the Sensualistic, the Theological, and the Eclectic. 
The first of these embraces the disciples of Locke and Con- 
• dillac, whose opinions we more particularly noticed as the pre- 
vailing ones in the eighteenth century. The men of the nine- 
teenth who have been most eminent in this class are Cabanis, 
Dustutt Tracy, Volney, Laromiguiere, and Azais. Damiron's 

*- An English translation of Vinet's History of French Literature in the 
Eighteenth Century has been published by T. <fe T. Clark, Edinburgh, 1854. 



LAMENNAIS — COUSIN. 407 

account of the opinions of tlie theological philosophers — that 
is, of those who assume the dogmas of the Roman Catholic 
religion as the data of a philosophical system — is briefly ex- 
pressed thus : ^^ In general human nature is not good, and it 
therefore has need of coercion. If those who govern do not rule 
according to this principle, it is to be feared that disorder and 
anarchy will ensue. It requires a master to constrain, to sub- 
ject, and to force it to fulfil the conditions of its destiny. Elle 
se perdrait 'par la liberte^ car certainement elle ne V employ erait 
pas dans un hut d^ expiation et n^en user ait pas pour son salut. 
Rulers ought not to be considered tutors or guardians, but 
judges and correctors. It is the wicked they have to do with^ 
for human nature is wicked; they must not yield to the people^ 
but they must govern them imperially and treat them souve- 
rainement.^^ Such, however, were assuredly not the political 
opinions of the recently deceased Abbe de Lamennais, the 
most ardent and powerful of those writers who have maintained 
during the present age that the ancient faith of France is what 
is lacking to its national prosperity. He took up his pen when 
the crown was about to be placed on the head of the first Napo- 
leon ; and when the concordat was signed assuring the Romish 
clergy of protection, he published a pamphlet, in which he 
denounced the hollowness of the Emperor's profession. It is 
believed that the Church of Rome has never had so courageous 
and so intelligent an advocate since the days of Luther's per- 
sonal opponents. The reputation af Lamennais has its best 
foundation in his Essai sur V Indifference en 31atiere de Reli- 
gion, in which he develops all his opinions, and declares that 
la societe n^est plus qu^un doute immense. '' The community,'' 
he says, ^^ is atheistic ; the political aggregate of the nations 
of Europe is only a corpse ; give it faith, and you will give it 
life ao^ain.'^ 



lAj_.C* 



M. Cousin is the leader of the eclectic philosophy of France, 
which appears to be a modification of that of Schelling in Ger- 



408 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

many. It is impossible to read his Fragments Philosopliig^ues 
without perceiving his conclusion to be^ that God and matter 
are one, and that individual existences are only parts and por- 
tions of the absolute, the ens realissimwn, even as an individual 
space is a portion of space infinite. Not only are all forms of 
religion contemned under this theory, but a divine revelation 
is depreciated, if not utterly repudiated. ^' Revelation is acces- 
sible only through tradition. But revelation, even when it is 
faithful, cannot in itself be clear or precise, because it treats 
of a vague and obscure subject. It wants light — true, naive, 
and inspired — full of simplicity and greatness, abounding in 
poetry. It is throughout, as it were, a popular song, or rather 
a metaphysical hymn ; but there is no theory, for all is sensi- 
ble. Thus traversing ages and countries, translated and re- 
translated, variously interpreted, modified in a thousand ways, 
incomplete and altered : in this state it reaches generations 
little fitted either by their position or habits of thought to 
comprehend it; and, far from enlightening, it serves but to 
perplex their understanding, to harass and disgust their 
genius.'^ 

And again : ^^ Philosophy is the worship of ideas, and of 
ideas alone ; it is the last victory of thought over every form 
and element foreign to itself; it is the highest rank of the 
freedom of the understanding. Industry was one enfranchise- 
ment of nature; the state, a still further enfranchisement; 
art, a new progress ; religion, a progress still more sublime : 
philosophy is the last enfranchisement, the last progress of 
thought/' Not repudiating, as it will be perceived, but under- 
valuing religion as an inferior step in civilization. Here is his 
final declaration on this subject : — 

^^ In my opinion, all truths are contained in Christianity; 
but these eternal truths may, and ought to be, at this day, ap- 
proached, unravelled, and illustrated by philosophy. There is 
but one truth at bottom ; but truth has two forms — that of 



COUSIN— BERANGER. 409 

mystery, and that of scientific exposition. I revere tlie one; 
I am here the organ, the interpreter of the other/^ 

It would be a task as vain as ungrateful, to present in detail 
the principles of a philosophy which is likely to be as much in 
vogue in France as in Germany — abounding in daring thought 
and generalization, undermining revelation by exalting reason 
as all-sufficient in its stead ; but in this superior to the infidelity 
of the last century — that its tendency is to elevate the mind 
and develop the moral principle, instead of leaving man gro- 
velling in mere matter, and destitute of any moral obligation 
but what is deducible from his bodily organization. It is inci- 
pient pantheism instead of atheism,* 

The present century has exhibited some new features in 
poetry. The humble position of France on the fall of Bona- 
parte — invaded and garrisoned by her enemies — awoke the 
patriotism of Beranger, and inspired his heart-stirring songs. 
Hitherto, France had had no popular ballad-literature ; all the 
previous poetry we have noticed was intended to be sung in 
courtly halls, in the ears of royalty, or in the circles of fashion, 
and it consequently partook more or less of courtly afi'ectation, 
disdaining popular truth ; but Beranger was the poet of the 
people. 

Most of his earlier compositions were political, either extol- 
ling the greatness of the fallen empire, or bewailing the low 
estate of France under the restored dynasty of the Bourbons. 
They were received with enthusiasm, and sung from one end 
of the country to the other. For a time, the government 

"*■ Many differ from the author in the estimate of Cousin's Philosophy. 
The lectures on the True, the Beautiful, and the Good, have recently been 
translated into English and published. M. Cousin has rendered valuable 
service to literature in late years by his Studies on Pascal, and the 
renowned French women of the seventeenth century. 
35 



410 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

seemed to feel that it would not be prudent to interfere ; so 
that the patriotic muse of Beranger had full scope, his themes 
becoming graver and his language bolder in each succeeding 
publication. When, however, in 1820, 10,000 subscription 
names were put down for a new edition of his effusions, a 
prosecution was set on foot, the poet convicted of libel, and 
committed to prison for twelve months. And now, under 
color of reporting the trial, the whole of the condemned songs 
were republished as part of the proceedings, uniform with a 
reissue of those admitted to be innocent; and the government 
being defeated in an attempt to suppress this supplement, the 
songs obtained authorized circulation throughout the kingdom. 
The later songs of Beranger, which appeared in 1833, exhibit 
a not unnatural or unpleasing change from the audacious and 
too often licentious tone of his earlier days. His gayety is 
tempered with seriousness, and his purer taste has discarded 
much that was offensive to decorum. His political mission, as 
he himself says, being terminated, the tumult of political strife 
at an end, and the giddy fervor of youth tempered by the sor- 
rowful experience of age, his mind turns with a livelier and 
closer sympathy to the contemplation of those sufferings which 
he daily witnessed in the annals of the poor. These he depicts 
with a truth and vigor which have seldom been equalled. 
Here, for instance, are the plaints of an actress reduced from 
a life of extravagant gayety to utter destitution — not a rare 
character, it is to be feared : — 

It snows, it snows, but on the pavement still 

She kneels and prays, nor lifts her head ; 
Beneath these rags through which the blast blows shrill, 

Shivering she kneels, and waits for bread. 
Hither each morn she gropes her weary way, 

Winter and summer there is she. 
Blind is the wretched creature I well-a-day ! 

Ah ! give the blind one charity 1 



BERANGER. 411 

Ah ! once far different did that form appear ; 

That sunken cheek, that color wan, 
The pride of thronged theatres, to hear 

Her voice, enraptured Paris ran : 
In smiles or tears before her beauty's shrine, 

Which of us has not bowed the knee ? — 
Who owes not to her charms some dreams divine ? 

Ah ! give the blind one charity ! 

How oft when from the crowded spectacle, 

Homeward her rapid coursers flew, 
Adoring crowds would on her footsteps dwell, 

And loud huzzas her path pursue. 
To hand her from the glittering car, that bore 

Her home to scenes of mirth and glee, 
How many rivals thronged around her door — 

Ah ! give the blind one charity i 

When all the arts to her their homage paid, 

How splendid was her gay abode ! 
What mirrors, marbles, bronzes were displayed, 

Tributes by love on love bestowed: 
How duly did the Muse her banquets gild. 

Faithful to her prosperity : 
In every palace will the swallow build ! — 

Ah ! give the poor one charity ! 

But sad reverse — sudden disease appears; 

Her eyes are quenched, her voice is gone ; 
And here, forlorn and poor, for twenty years, 

The blind one kneels and begs alone. 
Who once so prompt her generous aid to lend? 

What hand more liberal, frank, and free. 
Than that she scarcely ventures to extend ? — 

Ah ! give the poor one charity ! 

Alas for her ! for faster falls the snow. 

And every limb grows stiff with cold ; 
That rosary once woke her smile, which now 

Her frozen fingers hardly hold. 



412 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

If bruised beneath so many woes, .her heart 

By pity still sustained may be, 
Lest even her faith in Heaven itself depart, 

Ah! give the blind one charity!^" 

Le Juif Errant is considered one of the best of Berange/s 
pieces. 

LE JUIF ERRANT. 

Chretien, au voyageur souffrant 
Tends un verre d'eau sur ta porte. 
Je suis, je suis le juif errant 
Qu'un tourbillon toujours eraporte. 
Sans vieillir, accable de jours, 
La fin du monde est mon seul reve, 
Chaque soir j'esp^re toujours, 
Mais toujours le soleil se leve. 

Toujours, toujours 
Tourne la terre oil moi je cours, 
Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours. 

Depuis dix-huit slides, helas ! 
Sur la cendre grecque et romaine, 
Sur les debris de mille Etats, 
L'affreux tourbillon me prom^ne. 
J'ai vu sans fruit germer le bien, 
Yu des calamites fecondes, 
Et pour survivre au monde aneien 
Des flots j^'ai vu sortir deux mondes* 
Toujours, etc. 

Dieu m'a change pour me punir : 
A tout ce qui meurt je m' attache. 
Mais du toit pret a me benir 
Le tourbillon soudain m'arrache. 
Plus d'un pauvre vient implorer 
Le denier que je puis repandre, 
Qui n'a pas le temps de serrer 
La main qu'en passant j'aime a tendre. 
Toujours, etc. 

* Edinburgh Review, vol. Ivii. p. 495. 



35* 



BERANGER. 413 

Seul, au pied d'arbustes en fleurs, 
Sur le gazon, au bord de I'onde, 
Si je repose mes douleurs, 
J'entends le tourbillon qui gronde. 
Ell ! qu'importe au ciel irrite 
Get instant passe sous I'ombrage ? 
Faut-il moins que Teternite 
Pour delasser d'un tel voyage ? 
ToujourSj etc. 

Que des enfants vifs et joyeux 
Des miens me retracent I'image ; 
Si j'en veux repaitre mes yeux, 
Le tourbillon souffle avec rage. 
Vieillards, osez-vous a tout prix 
M'envier la longue carri^re ? 
Ces enfants a qui je souris, 
Mon pied balaira leur poussi^re. 
Toujours, etc. 

Des murs ou je suis ne jadis 
E.etrouve-je encor quelque trace, 
Pour m'arreter je me roidis. 
Mais le tourbillon me dit : *' Passe ! 
Passe !" et la voix me crie aussi : 
"Eeste debout quand tout succombe; 
Tes aieux ne font point ici 
Garde de place dans leur tombe." 
Toujours, etc. 

J'outrageai d'un rire inhumain 
L'homme-Dieu respirant a peine .... 
Mais sous mes pieds fuit le cbemin. 
Adieu, le tourbillon m'entraine. 
Yous qui manquez de cbarite, 
Tremblez a ce supplice etrange. 
Ce n'est point sa divinite, 
C'est I'humanite que Dieu venge. 

Toujours, toujours 
Tourne la terre ou moi je cours, 
Toujours, toujours, toujours, toujours. 



414 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

It has been remarked, as a striking ctaracteristic of Be- 
ranger's songs, that they have a carefully arranged plan, each 
ballad forming a complete whole, from which no verse can 
easily be taken without injuring the general effect; whereas, 
English songs seldom appear to have any plan at all, and they 
might often be turned upside down, or deprived of half-a-dozen 
verses, without materially affecting the connexion of ideas. 

The patriotism of Casimir Delavigne* took a more serious 
tone than that of Beranger, which was for the most part gay, 
sportive, and, it must be added, licentious. While the allied 
armies yet remained in France, and her pride, so long fed by 
a course of brilliant conquest, was feeling the sting of being 
thus occupied, Delavigne sang her misfortunes with power and 
pathos, giving his poems an elegaic form, and styling them 
Messeniennes. '' I have borrowed this title from Barthelemi,^^ 
said he, '^ to characterize a species of national poetry which no 
one has yet endeavored to introduce into our literature.'' The 
exaggerations of these poems were very suitable to the feeling 
which pervaded the country just at that time; and they were 
repeated at all the patriotic meetings, as the true expression of 
a nation's sorrow; but as these emotions gradually subsided, 
and the people became more reconciled to the new regime, the 
celebrity of Delavigne's elegies diminished in proportion. 

Lamartine and Victor Hugo are confessedly the most 
eminent lyric poets of this century. In the hands of the for- 
mer, the language, softened and harmonized, loses that clear, 
glancing, epigrammatic expression, which before him had 
appeared inseparable from French poetry. f Moreover, his 

* Born 1793, died 1843. 

f Lamartine's prose works should not be forgotten. Among them we 
maj' specially notice his History of the Girondists, History of the French 
Kevolution of 1848, and History of the Restoration of Monarchy in France, 



LAMARTINE. 415 

works are pervaded by an earnest religious feeling, with a 
chasteness and delicacy wliich render them the familiar favor- 
ites of the domestic hearth. The best collection of Lamartine's 
lyrics are his Meditations, which appeared in 1820, just at 
the time when that pensive religious feeling which settled over 
France after the Restoration, had been fostered by the works 
of Chateaubriand; and nothing could have given it more 
perfect expression. The Harmonies, likewise, chimed in for- 
tuitously with a passion for mysticism, which very generally 
prevailed a short time previous to the political and literary 
revolution of 1830. They are of unequal merit ; some rising 
to loftier notes than those in the Meditations, while few, if 
any, are so perfect throughout. 

A brief specimen of the tender, imaginative, and dreamy 
style of Lamartine, may be presented in an English dress. 
It is an 

ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

What time thy heavenly voice preludes 

Unto the fair and silent night, 
Winged minstrel of my solitudes, 

Unknown to thee I trace its flight. 

Thou knowest not that one remains 

Beneath the trees, hour after hour. 
Whose ear drinks in thy wondrous strains, 

Intoxicated by their power; 

Nor that the while a breath of air 

Escapes but from my lips with grief; 
And that my foot avoids with care 

The rustling of a single leaf; 

Thou deemest not that one, whose art 

Is like thine own, but known to day, 
Repeats and envies in his heart 

Thy forest-born nocturnal lay ! 



416 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

If but the star of night reclines 
Upon the hills thy song to hear, 

Amid the branches of the pines 

Thou couchest from the ray in fear. 

Or if the rivulet, which chides 

The stone that in its way doth come, 

Should speak from 'neath its mossy sides, 
The sound affrights and strikes thee dumb. 

Thy voice, so touching and sublime, 
Is far too pure for this gross earth: 

Surely we well may deem the chime 
An instinct which from God has birth ! 

Thy warblings and thy murmurs sweet 

Into melodious union bring 
All fair sounds that in nature meet, 

Or float from heaven on wandering wing. 

Thy voice, though thou mayst know it not, 
Is but the voice of the blue sky — 

Of forest glade, and sounding grot. 
And vale where sleeping shadows lie : 

It blends the tones which it receives 
From prattlings of the summer rills, 

From trembling rustlings of the leaves, 
From echoes dying on the hills ; 

From waters filtering drop by drop 
Down naked crag to basin cool, 

And sounding ever without stop, 

While wrinkling all the rock-arched pool ; 

From the rich breeze-born plaints that flow 
From out the branchy night of trees ; 

From whispering reeds and waves that go 
To die upon the shores of seas ; 

Of these sweet voices, which contain 
The instinct that instructeth thee, 



LAMARTINE. 417 

God made, nightingale, the strain 
Thou givest unto night and me ! 

Ah ! these so soft nocturnal scenes, 

These pious mysteries of the eve, 
And these fair flowers, of which each leans 

Above its urn, and seems to grieve ; 

These leaves, on which the dew-tears lie, 
These freshest breathings of the trees — 

All things, nature, loudly cry, 

** A voice must be for sweets like these !" 

And that mysterious voice — that sound. 

Which angels listen to with me. 
That sigh of pious night — is found 

In thee, melodious bird, in thee ! 

The following, wMcli we give in tlie original^ is considered 
one of his best pieces : — 

LE LAC. 

Ainsi, toujours pouss^s vers de nouveaux rivages, 
Dans la nuit eternelle emportes sans retour, 
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur I'ocean des ages 
Jeter I'ancre un seul jour ? 

lac ! I'ann^e a peine a fini sa carri^re, 
Et pr^s des flots cheris qu'elle devait revoir, 
Regarde ! je viens seul m'asseoir sur cette pierre 
Oil tu la vis s'asseoir ! 

Tu mugissais ainsi sous ses roches profondes, 
Ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs dechirees, 
Ainsi le vent jetait I'ecume de tes ondes 
Sur ses pieds adores. 

Un soir, t'en souvient-il ? nous voguions en silence ; 
On n'entendait au loin, sur I'onde et sous les cieux, 
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence 
Tes flots harmonieux. 



418 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

Tout k coup des accents inconnus ^ la terre 
Du rivage charme frapperent les echos : 
Le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m'est chere 
Laissa tomber ces mots : 

<< temps ! suspends ton vol ; et vous, heures propices ! 

Suspendez votre cours : 
Laissez-nous savourer les rapides delices 

Des plus beaux de nos jours ! 

Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent ; 

Coulez, coulez pour eux : 
Prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les devorent; 

Oubliez les heureux. 

Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore : 

Le temps m'echappe et fuit ; 
Je dis a cette nuit : Sois plus lente ; et I'aurore 

Va dissiper la nuit. 

Aimons done, aimons done ! de I'heure fugitive, 

Hatons-nous, jouissons ! 
L'homme n'a point de port, le temps n'a point de rive; 

11 coule, et nous passons !" 

Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d'ivresse, 
Ou I'amour a longs flots nous verse le bonheur, 
S'envolent loin de nous de la meme vitesse 
Que les jours du malheur? 

Eh quoi ! n'en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace ? 
Quoi ! passes pour jamais! quoi! tons entiers perdus ! 
Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface, 
Ne nous les rendra plus ! 

O lac ! rochers muets ! grottes ! foret obscure I 
♦ Vous, que le temps epargne ou qu'il pent rajeunir, 
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature, 
Au moins le souvenir ! 

Qu'il soit dans ton repos, qu'il soit dans tes orages, 
Beau lac, et dans I'aspect de tes riants coteaux, 
Et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages 
Qui pendent sur tes eaux. 



LAMARTINE — VICTOR HUGO. 419 

Qu'il soit dans le zephyr qui fremit et qui passe, 
Dans les bruits de tes bords par des bords repetes, 
Dans I'astre au front d'argent qui blanchit ta surface 
De ses molles clartes. 

Que le vent qui gemit, le roseau qui soupire, 
Que les parfums legers de ton air embaume, 
Que tout ce qu'on entend, Ton voit ou Ton respire, 
Tout dise : lis ont aime ! 

The fame of Lamartine rests cMefiy on the Meditations, 
Harmonies, and Jocelyn, a kind of religious romance in verse, 
turning on the sorrows of an attached pair, who are separated 
by the hero being induced to take holy orders. His later works 
are inferior; and from a concurrence of circumstances not 
necessary to particularize, his once unbounded popularity has 
greatly declined. 

The quiet and simple strains of Victor Hugo* — ^tender, 
domestic, chastened both in their mournfulness and in their 
mirth, charged with unstudied expressions of youthful hopes, 
recollections, sorrows, friendships, and loves — are in singular 
contrast with some of his productions in drama and romance. 
We have met with a pleasing translation of one of his pictures 
of infancy; yet we would deem it unfair to withhold the 
original : — 



Dans I'alcove sombre, 
Prfes d'un bumble autel, 
L'enfant dort a I'ombre 

Du lit maternel. 
Tandis qu'il repose, 
Sa paupiere rose, 
Pour la terre close, 

S'ouvre pour le ciel. 



In the dusky court, 
Near the altar laid, 
Sleeps the child in shadow 

Of his mother's bed : 
Softly he reposes, 
And his lids of roses, 
Closed to earth, uncloses 

On the heaven o'erhead. 



* His poetical works consist of: 1. Odes et Ballades. 2. Les Orien tales. 
3. Les Feuilles d'Automne. 4. Chants du Crepuscule. 5. Les Voix In- 
t^rieurs. 6. Chatiments. 7. Les Contemplations. 8. Dramas. 



420 



FRENCH LITERATURE. 



II fait bien des reves. 
11 voit par momens 
Le sable des graves 

Plein de diamans, 
Des soleils de flammes, 
Et de belles dames, 
Qui portent des ames 

Dans leurs bras charmans. 

Songe qui renchante ! 
II voit des ruisseaux. 
Une voix qui chante 

Sort du fond des eaux. 
Ses soeurs sont plus belles. 
Son p^re est pres d'elles. 
Sa mere a des ailes 

Comme les oiseaux. 

II voit mille choses 
Plus belles encor ; 
Des lis et des roses 

Plein le corridor ; 
Des lacs de delice 
Ou le poisson glisse, 
Oil I'onde se plisse 

A des roseaux d'or ! 

Enfant, reve encore ! 
Dors, 6 mes amours ! 
Ta jeune ame ignore 

Oil s'en vont tes jours. 
Comme une algue morte 
Tu vas, que t'importe ! 
Le courant t'emporte, 

Mais tu dors toujours ! 

Sans soin, sans etude, 
Tu dors en cbemin ; 
Et I'inquidtude 
A la froide main, 



Many a dream is with him. 
Fresh from fairy-land, 
Spangled o'er with diamonds 

Seems the ocean-sand ; 
Suns are gleaming there, 
Troops of ladies fair 
Souls of infants bear 

In their charming hand. 

! enchanting vision I 
Lo, a rill up-springs. 
And from out its bosom 

Comes a voice that sings. 
Lovelier there appear 
Sire and sisters dear, 
While his mother near, 

Plumes her new-born wings. 

But a brighter vision 
Yet his eyes behold ; 
Roses all, and lilies, 

Every path infold ; 
Lakes in shadow sleeping. 
Silver fishes leaping, 
And the waters creeping. 

Through the reeds of gold. 

Slumber on, sweet infant, 

Slumber peacefully ; 

Thy young soul yet knows not 

What thy lot may be. 
Like dead leaves that sweep 
Down the stormy deep. 
Thou art borne in sleep. 

What is all to thee ? 

Thou canst slumber by the way; 
Thou hast learnt to borrow [care ; 
Nought from study, nought from 
The cold hand of sorrow, 



BaRBIER. 



421 



De son ongle aride, 
Sur ton front candide 
Qui n'a point de ride, 
N'ecrit pas : Demain ! 

II dort, innocence ! 
Les anges sereins 
Qui savent d'avance 

Le sort des humains, 
Le voyant sans armes, 
Sans peur, sans alarmes, 
Baisent avec larmes 

Ses petites mains. 

Leurs levres effleurent 

Ses levres de miel. 

L' enfant voit qu'ils pleurent, 

Et dit : Gabriel ! 
Mais range le touche, 
Et ber9ant sa couche, 
Un doigt sur sa bouche 

Leve I'autre au ciel ! 



On thy brow unwrinkled yet, 
Where young truth and candor sit, 
Ne'er with rugged nail hath writ 
That sad word : ** To-morrow !" 

Innocent ! thou sleepest — 
See the heavenly band, 
Who foreknow the trials 

That for man are planned ; 
Seeing him unarmed, 
Unfearing, unalarmed. 
With their tears have warmed 

His unconscious hand. 

Angels, hovering o'er him, 
Kiss him where he lies. 
Hark ! he sees them weeping, 

*' Gabriel!" he cries; 
<*Hush!" the angel says, 
On his lip he lays 
One finger, one displays 

His native skies. 



Shortly after the Revolution of July, 1830, Barbier, tlien 
a very young man, attracted considerable attention by a new 
style of poetry, characterized by boldness and manly vigor, 
instead of the polish and regularity which we have remarked 
in earlier authors, especially those styled classic. A volume 
of sonnets, bearing the title of Rimes Herolques, are introduced 
by the following explanation : — ^ 

*' < Selecting such as treated of names known in history, and group- 
ing them according to their date, I have composed a kind of portrait- 
gallery, and decorated it with this title. I have not always sung 
the most brilliant and applauded, but rather the least happy and most 
pure, and those with whom my own views and feelings most led me 
to sympathize.' Monsieur Barbier's sonnets more than fulfil the pro- 
mise held out by a preface, whose modesty but makes their merit 
more apparent. *The sonnet,' he says, 'accustomed to give forth 
86 



422 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

a sigh, is susceptible of other tones ;' and these indeed ascend to 
proud notes, and give forth manly accents. Here is Arnold of Winkel- 
ried at Sempach, before the archduke's impenetrable army, embracing 
a sheaf of lances, and as they are buried in his breast, bidding * Vic- 
tory and Liberty pass through the space he has opened ;' here Madame 
Roland in the fatal cart, in white robes, and calm, with insult around 
her and the scaffold before, speaking her last words to the misused 
form of Liberty ; here Egmont, his blood flowing over the pavement 
of Brussels ; here Leopold of Brunswick, sinking beneath the waters 
of the Oder; and Barra, the republican boy of thirteen, already a 
soldier in the Blues, is here alone on the heath of La Vendee. He 
has met some stragglers of the royal army, who offer him life, and 
bid him cry, * Vive le Roi!' He is *pale and silent, till, the angel 
of the people soaring before his eyes, he shouts, Vive la Republique V 
and dies." 

It is not to be concealed, however, that the poems of Barbier 
are often disfigured by what is vulgar, impious, and licentious. 



XXIV.— NOVELS AND DRAMAS. 

GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE LITERATURE WHICH FOLLOWED THE REVOLU- 
TION OF 1830 — VICTOR HUGO — HIS NOTRE DAME — ALFRED DE VIGNY — 
BALZAC — GEORGE SAND — A. DUMAS — VICTOR HUGO'S MARION DELORME — 
CONCLUSION. 

The period to which we are referring — that is, the years 
which immediately succeeded the Revolution of 1830 — was 
distinguished by immense fecundity in light literature, con- 
sisting chiefly of dramas and romances, and bearing strongly 
the stamp of the prevailing excitement, suspense, conflict, and 
fear of change. Nothing calm, majestic, simple, or classical 
about it; everything hurried with the coarse rapidity of 
scenes for the stage, as though the watchword of literature 



LITTERATTJRE EXTRA VAGANTE. 423 

was : ^^ Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die/^ It bears 
evident traces of a chaos of opinion, as well as political uncer- 
tainty. It is not professedly an infidel literature, like tliat of 
the eighteenth century, any more than one of general faith 
and positive conviction, like that of the seventeenth. It seems 
to have no general aim ; the efforts, like the opinions of the 
authors, contradicting one another, and even seldom being 
consistent with themselves for any length of time. 

Not to dwell on the poetry, exhibiting monstrous exaggera- 
tion of coloring, audacity of speculation, extravagance of diction, 
the contortions of Sibyl without her inspiration — we must 
give the reader some idea of the novels and romances. 

The elder fictions of France have been succeeded by a host 
of new ones, justly styled La Litter ature Extravagante — as it 
has created an unreal world, emancipated from all the laws and 
exigencies of the actual, and even from the conventional rules 
which preside over the ordinary world of fiction. It delights 
in speculations upon '^ all fearful, all unutterable things '^ — 
in details of the most frightful atrocities, in the most singular 
alliances between the ludicrous and the terrible, the voluptuous 
and the horrific ; in the prevalence of a fatalism, on the one 
hand, inducing man to live and die like the beasts that perish ; 
and on the other, a desperation which vents itself in impiety, 
or evaporates in sarcasm. In reading these romances, we pass 
from the splendid palace to the miserable hovel, the loathsome 
dungeon, the infected hospital; thence to drunken revels, 
or licentious orgies, and infallibly to the guillotine or the 
Morgue."^ We are perpetually treading on the very confines 

* The Morgue is the establishment for the reception of persons found 
dead, that an opportunity may be given for them to be claimed by their 
friends. It is, of course, a grand receptacle for those who have perished 
by suicide, which is a fashionable termination for the heroes and heroines 
of French romance. 



424 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

of decency, and not seldom hurried into scenes of undisguised 
licentiousness. 

The style of these works partakes a good deal of the wild 
incongruous character of the incidents. Metaphors, similes, 
illustrations drawn from the most revolting departments of the 
physical world on the one hand, or the most sacred precincts 
of the spiritual on the other; paradoxical maxims of morality 
dazzling for a moment and bewildering the mind; these 
mingled with occasional passages of great brilliancy and 
beauty; episodes introduced with skill and pathos, and a dash 
of humor enhancing the pathos, and giving an insight into 
the structure of society, which has been compared to the 
singularly acute perceptions which at times occur amidst the 
hazy visions of intoxication. 

Doubtless many examples might be adduced of a more sub- 
dued and natural cast. But what we mean is, that the lead- 
ing talent of the day, about the time referred to, took the 
direction we have indicated; that the dissection of the body 
social and the body politic sometimes by the coarsest instru- 
ments, and with the most needless display of its morbid 
anatomy in the shape of philosophical romances, almost super- 
seded those more indulgent, and, probably, more true pictures 
of life which presented themselves to such men as Le Sage, 
Cervantes, and Sir Walter Scott. 

No one denies to this literature the credit of engaging the 
reader's most intense interest, by the seductive vivacity of the 
movement, the variety of incident, and the perfect command 
which the authors seem to have of all those appliances which, 
coarse as they are, are the most calculated to affect minds 
which have been rendered callous to slighter emotions. 

The names in this convulsive school are numerous, and their 
fecundity appalling : we can notice only the most prominent. 

The first place is by general consent allotted to Victor 



VICTOR HUGO. 425 

IIuGO^ whose Notre Dame de Paris has excited greater 
interest than any other fiction since those of Chateaubriand 
and Madame de Stael, Several of the characters appear to 
have been suggested by previous writers ; but the descriptive 
portion introduces a striking novelty, the scene lying chiefly in 
a cathedral, and all the incidents passing either in or about it. 
The age is that of Louis XI., and the manners and customs 
of the fifteenth century are considered as faithfully portrayed. 
The story is that of a foundling, exposed under the roof of 
the cathedral of Notre Dame, and adopted by one of the 
priests. The infant is represented as a complete monster of 
deformity, of gigantic form and herculean strength, bow- 
legged, blind of an eye, his face frightfully pitted with small- 
pox, a huge tusk protruding from his lips, which lie by no 
means horizontally in his face, his hair composed of red 
bristles, and an enormous wen hanging over his right eye. 
Brought up in the cathedral, he succeeded to the office of bell- 
ringer, and gained a livelihood by its towers. 

" In process of time, a union of the most intimate descrip- 
tion was formed between the bellman and the church. Sepa- 
rated from the world by the double misfortune of his unknown 
birth and his ungainly form, imprisoned from childhood within 
these impassable boundaries, the unfortunate creature was ac- 
customed to see no object in the world beyond the religious 
walls which had afi'orded him shelter. Notre Dame had been 
successively, as his growth proceeded, his egg, his nest, his 
house, his country — all the world to him. 

^^ A sort of mysterious and pre-existent harmony had grown 
up between this creature and the edifice. While yet a child, 
creeping along, twisting and jumping under its shadowy 
arches, he appeared with his human face and scarcely human 
limbs, mingling with the grotesque shadows projected by the 
capitals of the Gothic pillars, as the native reptile of the dark 
dank pavement. The first time that he mechanically laid hold 
36* 



426 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

of the rope hanging from the tower, clung to it, and put the 
bell in motion, the effect produced on his mind was like that a 
parent feels at the first articulate sounds of his child. As he 
grew up, his spirit expanded in harmony with his cathedral — 
there he lived, there he slept, and under the perpetual influ- 
ence of its presence, he came at last to resemble it, to be in- 
crusted with it, to be, as it were, an integral part of it. His 
salient angles seemed to fit into the corners of the edifice, so 
that he appeared not only the inhabitant, but as if nature had 
intended it for his shell, and that, like the snail, he had taken 
its form.^' 

The charm of the romance lies in the conception of this 
character, and in the singular art by which this monster, who 
at first awakens terror and disgust, comes at length to be an 
object of our pity and admiration, his mind expanding and 
refining under the influence of love. The archdeacon, Claude 
Frollo, by whom the monster Quasimodo was adopted, is a per- 
son of extraordinary sanctity and learning. Having exhausted 
the limited science of his age, he has betaken himself to the 
dark studies of alchemy and astrology; but neither these 
absorbing pursuits, nor the mortifications of his cloistered soli- 
tude, have extinguished the passions of the man. He chances 
to see a gipsy-girl of singular grace and beauty, dancing in the 
streets, amidst an admiring throng of gazers ; and he becomes 
enamored of her charms. This passion of the priest for Es- 
meralda, his jealousy, his mixture of persecution and adora- 
tion, form the main plot to which the rest of the action is 
subservient. At one time, he betrays her into the hands of 
justice; at another, he risks his life, and even his reputation 
for sanctity, in order to save her ; but a most unexpected 
rival appears in the person of his own slave, Quasimodo, whom 
an act of kindness and sympathy has converted into the 
humblest and most delicate, as well as the most ardent of the 
elegant gipsy^s admirers. He performs incredible feats of 



VICTOR HUGO — ALFRED DE VIGNY. 427 

heroism in her service^ but she is alike indifferent to the fer- 
vent passion of the archdeacon and the faithful services of the 
muscular hunchback. Fascinated by a brilliant uniform and a 
handsome face^ she has fixed her simple affection on a vain 
young officer of gendarmerie^ and she loves to the death. The 
priest, at a critical moment^ plunges a dagger into the side of 
his rival ; the poor gipsy is accused of the act, tortured, per- 
secuted, and eventually gibbeted. This catastrophe it was in 
the power of the priest to avert, but he hoped by working on 
her fears, to obtain her consent to his proposals. Even at the 
foot of the scaffold, however, she rejects his advances with 
loathing and scorn. Thus baffled by the scorn and firmness 
of the lovely outcast, he ascends the tower of Notre Dame to 
feast his eyes with the spectacle of her death; and as he 
leans over the parapet gazing on the fatal Place de Greve, 
Quasimodo hurls him from the giddy height, two hundred feet 
'^ plumb down,'^ upon the pavement below. This description 
is terrible beyond conception. Every motion, every struggle 
of the wretched priest, every clutch of his nails, every heave 
of the breast, as he clings to the projecting spout which has 
arrested his fall; then the gradual bending of the spout be- 
neath his weight, the crowd shouting beneath, the monster 
weeping above — for he had loved the priest, though urged to 
this deed by the fury of disappointed attachment — the victim 
balancing himself over the depth below ; his last convulsive 
effort ere he quits his hold, even the turns of his body as he 
descends, and then the final crash and rebound upon the pave- 
ment — all are portrayed with dreadful minuteness, and convey 
the faithful reality. 

We need scarcely remark, that there are extravagances not 
a few, both of style and sentiment, in this work ; yet it remains 
a standing monument to the fame of Victor Plugo. 

M. Alfred de Vigny is, like Victor Hugo^ a lyric poet 



428 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

and a dramatist as well as a novelist. His historical romance 
of Cinq-Mars, or a conspiracy under Kichelieu^ has obtained 
a lasting reputation ; and it is to be remarked that his 
novels are composed with great care, highly polished, and dis- 
figured with comparatively few deviations from good taste and 
propriety. 

Not so M. Balzac, one of the most popular and copious of 
modern writers, some of whose works are in the highest degree 
vicious and immoral ; while the style is in some places pure 
and beautiful, in others extravagant, and even grossly inde- 
corous. His intellect has been characterized as a heterogene- 
ous mine, containing ore of every description ; and his works, 
as forming a collection as singular and diversified as may be 
found in the literature of any country. 

The novels of the celebrated George Sand (Madame Dude- 
vant) afford a lamentable proof of the aberrations into which a 
highly gifted mind may be led under the influence of unsancti- 
fied sorrow. Unfortunate in her marriage, and stung by the 
treatment of a heartless, corrupt, and hypocritical society, she 
seems to have been goaded to exasperation by a sense of wrong, 
and to have sought retaliation by depicting society in the most 
revolting colors. Her earlier novels are highly wrought pic- 
tures of the wretchedness of married life, the heroines being 
women of warm affections and fine sensibilities, chained by 
Mariages de Convenance to men of gross and uncongenial 
habits, and escaping a premature grave only by repudiating 
the duty of conjugal fidelity, which is of course made to appear 
a most venial error, if an error at all. It is right to add, that 
this lady's mind has undergone a signal change since the pub- 
lication of these works, and her more recent ones are what may 
be termed religious novels. 

Eugene Sue was the first to introduce the maritime novel 



EUGENE SUE. 429 

into France, and his works of this kind evince great fertility 
of fancy and power of description. Most of Hs scenes and 
characters, however, are overwrought and exaggerated; and 
his reflections too often crude, sententious, and distorted. But 
the chief fault appears to be, that this writer undertakes to 
uphold the fatal paradox, that virtue is always unfortunate in 
this world, and crime always triumphant; the villains who figure 
as the heroes of his novels are ever prosperous in their lives, 
*ind honored in their deaths. The later labors of this author 
have been devoted to pictures of society on terra firma. His 
Mysteries of Paris is perhaps the best known in this country, 
admitted to command absorbing interest, though crowded, like 
most of his works, with atrocities and extravagances. 

It is too true, and deeply to be regretted, that those writers 
who keep within the bounds of sense and decorum, and en- 
deavor to combine instruction with amusement, have not 
commanded the same degree of interest that has generally 
attended every new production of the Litterature Extrava- 
gante. Public opinion has, indeed, greatly changed, and a 
general note of disapproval is now attached to these wild and 
revolting fictions ; yet they are extensively read, if only to be 
condemned, while such authors as Prosper Merimee are slowly 
appreciated. 

The remarks we have made on the unnatural and depraved 
state of fictitious narrative in France, apply still more forcibly 
to the theatre. The dramatists form a numerous body, who 
seem to spurn all traditionary canons and established rules, to 
indulge in the strangest conceits and the wildest innovations, 
vying with each other in the delineation of vice and wretched-. 
ness in their most disgusting forms. These aberrations are 
attributed by native critics chiefly to an egregious misconcep- 
tion of Shakspeare, who, with Schiller and Goethe, is all the 
rage. Among the best of the works that mark the transition 



430 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

from tlie old formal classic drama to the modern style intro- 
duced from England and Germany, are the Henri III. of M. 
Alexandre Dumas, the Marechale d'Ancre of M. Alfred 
DE ViGNY, and some of Victor Hugo's plays, especially his 
Marion Delorme, 

Marion is no less a personage than the celebrated beauty 
and courtesan who flourished in the time of Louis XIII. But 
her soul becomes purified by a strong and abiding affection; 
she e:xecrates her past life ; and at the opening of the drama, 
is introduced as having quitted the brilliant court of Paris, 
to meet Didier in retirement at Blois. When he arrives, 
he falls at her feet, and tells the story of his life : that he is 
a foundling, whose life has been spent in struggling with a 
heartless world; the hypocrisy, injustice, and selfishness of 
his fellow-creatures had reduced his too sensitive mind to a 
state of misanthropy, or rather a silent, corroding melancholy ; 
a poor, unloved, unknown wanderer upon earth, he had met 
with her, and her beauty had been the first sunbeam that had 
gladdened the desolation of his spirit. When he has finished 
his narration, she playfully replies : ^^ You are singular; but 
I love you thus.'^ He hails the avowal with rapture, and 
implores her to seal it by marriage, while she is tortured by 
the contending feelings which forbid her either to accept his 
proposal, or explain the reasons of her refusaL In this scene, 
as in those which follow, in the duel for which Didier is sen- 
tenced to death, in the efforts which Marion vainly makes to 
save him, there is much that is unfit for the eye of modesty. 
But the closing scene of mutual pardon and farewell is con- 
sidered a fine burst of poetry and passion, true to the sensi- 
bilities of nature in a high state of excitement. 

Viens, pauvre femme ! 

ei:- eiJ -» *- 

Oh! viens, que je te dise! Entre toutes les femmes, 
Et ceux qui sont ici m'approuvent dans leurs ames, 



CONCLUSION. 431 

Celle que j'aime, celle a qui reste ma foi, 

Celle que je venere enfin c'est encore toi ! 

Car tu fus bonne, douce, aimante, devouee ! 

Ecoute moi : ma vie est deja denouee, 

Je vais mourir, la mort fait tout voir au vrai jour. 

Va, si tu m'as trompe, c'est par exces d'amour ! 

Et ta chute d'ailleurs, Fas tu pas expiee ? 

Ta mere en ton berceau t'a peut-etre oubliee 

Comme moi. Pauvre enfant! tout jeune, ils auront 

Vendu ton innocence ! -5^ -h- * 

Ah ! relive ton front ! 
— Ecoutez tons ! A I'heure oil je suis, cette terre 
S'efface comme une ombre, et la bouche est sincere ! 
He bien, en ce moment, du haut de I'echafaud, 
Quand I'innocent y meurt, il n'est rien de plus haut ! 
Marie, ange du ciel que la terre a fletrie, 
Mon amour, mon epouse ! ecoute moi, Marie — 
Au nom du Dieu, vers qui la mort va m'entrainant, 
Je te pardonne. 

llarion (etoujfee de larmes). Ciel! 
Didier. A ton tour maintenant. 

\_Il s* agenouille devant elle. 
Pardonne moi ! 

3Iario7i. Didier! 

Didier {toujour s ct genoux). Pardonne moi, te dis-je ! 
C'est moi qui fus mechant. Dieu te frappe et t'afiflige 
Par moi ! Tu daigneras encor pleurer ma mort. 
Avoir fait ton malheur — va, c'est un grand remord ! 
Ne me laisse pas — pardonne moi, Marie ! 

If sucli is one of tlie best of modern French dramas^ considered 
highly moral in its conception and tendency, it may be inferred 
what those are that have proceeded from the pen of Balzac, 
Eugene Sue^ and George Sand. 

We cannot better conclude this rapid sketch than in the 
language of an eminent French litterateur : — ^^ Modern French 
literature is a strange, fantastic, wild medley of light and 



432 FRENCH LITERATURE. 

gloom ; tlie consequence of tlie state of society itself, wMcli is 
yet unsettled, tumultuous, and febrile, as we have already 
observed, after a great political but ill-directed movement. 
Nevertbeless, from out this vortex many powerful, noble, and 
gifted intellects will undoubtedly arise. The labors of divers 
contemporaries are in harmony with the epoch, it is true ; but 
taste will be purified by experience ; others will be hailed at a 
future period who are known to be devoted to the highest 
subjects of human interest; and as art is multiform, and as 
none of its expressions are to be suppressed when they emanate 
from nature, others again will rise, but isolated in their 
thoughts, and devoted to that calm and measured beauty, to 
the perfection of thought, and the excellency of language. . . 
^^ France is advancing towards her final destiny through an 
era of trials — a period of expiation, perhaps, during which 
human ideas and general intellect are wavering in uncer- 
tainty. Her literature is the perfect image of the national 
anxiety and anarchy. We see in it individual thought reacb- 
ing its utmost limits, accompanied by various excesses, owing 
to the absence of a recognised barrier, of a social bar and 
spirit of unity, that would keep it in its proper and befitting 
confines ; but times of unity, of prosperous fertility and per- 
fection, will follow.''* 



* For a truthful picture of some of tlie recent changes in the literary 
spirit of France, see North American Review, January, 1857. 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Abr6g6 de I'Histoire de Port Royal, 

by Rapine, 185 

Academie des Inscriptions, Recueil 

de 1', 370 

Adventures of Reynard the Fox, . ♦ 82 
Alcovists, or literary ladies, .... 149 
Alexandre, a drama, by Racine, . . 182 

Allegorical mythology, 91 

AUemagne, L', by Madame de Stael, . 385 
Amadis de Gaula, probable origin of, 92 
Amatory Verses to Olympia, by Pel- 

lisson, 264 

Amyot, professor of Greek and Latin 

at Paris, 138 

Ancient History, by Rollin, . . . .272 

Andromaque, by Racine, 182 

Aeago, the savant, 406 

Ariosto's materials, whence derived, . 92 
Arnand, Angelica, reformer of the 

abbey of Port Royal, 157 

Arnaud, Antoine, controversialist . . 158 

Arnaud de Marveil 46 

Arouet. Francis, Toltaire's father, . 313 
Art of Poetry, by Boileau, . . 227, 230 
Atala, a religious novel, by Chateau- 
briand, 394 

Athalie, analysis of, 184, 186 

Athalie, Toltaire's high opinion of, . 185 
Atree. a wild tragedy, by Crebillon, . 194 
Avocat Pethelin, a farce of 1480, . . 100 
Azais, as a philosopher, 406 

Bacon, Roger, at the university of 

Paris, 93 

Balzac, as a novelist, 428 

Character of his epistles, .... 143 

Barante, a literary historian, . . . 406 

His Litterature Frangaise, .... 404 

Barrier, a poet, 421 

Ba.«-bleuism in Paris, 149 

Bayle the sceptic, 299 

Beaumarchais 373 

Belisaife, by Marmontel, 367 

Stranger's songs, 409 

37 



PAGE 

Bergerac, his description of the aque- 
duct of Arcueil {note), 151 

Berenice, a tragedy by Racine, . . . 183 

Bernard de Ventadour, 45 

Bertrand de Born, 60 

Bible Guyot, 81 

Biographie IJniverselle, 403 

BiOT (the final t is pronounced), . . 406 
Blondel, the minstrel of Richard I., . 58 
Blue-stockings' literary society takes 

its rise, 148 

Boccaccio's sources of his tales, ... 92 
Boileau, life and satires of, .... 226 

His Epistles, 239 

Bolingbroke, 331 

Bonnet, Charles, philosopher, . . . 342 

Book of Clergie, 81 

Book of Mandevie, 81 

Book of the Britons, or the Romance 

of Brutus, 66 

Born, Bertrand de, 50 

BossuET, as a historian, 271 

His life and works, .... 247, 248 
His last oratorical effort, .... 255 
Bouillon, Duchess of, Fontaine's pa- 
troness 212 

BOURDALOUE, 247 

Quotation from his sermon on the 

Last Judgment, 257 

Brantome, writer of Memoires, . . .272 

Brueys the dramatist, 210 

Brunetto at the university of Paris, . 93 

Brutus, Romance of, 66 

Bruyere, La, 268 

Burlesque style prevails, 146 

Cabanis, as a philosopher, .... 406 
Calais, siege of, by Edward IIT., . . Ill 
Calvin, the leading type of La Reforme, 125 
His Commentary on the Scriptures, 126 
His Institutes of the Christian Re- 
ligion 125 

His style 137 

Campistron. imitator of Racine . . 194 

(433) 



434 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Caractdres de Notre SiScle, Les, by 

Bruyere, 268 

Carnage and Careme, battle of, . . . 83 
Cents Nouvelles du Koi Louis XI., . 117 

Century, the nineteenth, 378 

Characters of Theophrastus, trans- 
lated by Bruyere, 268 

Charlemagne and his paladins, ... 67 
Charron, friend and disciple of Mon- 
taigne, 136 

Ch ARTIER, Alain, 102 

Chateaubriand, M. le Vicomte de, . 392 
Chatelet, Marchioness du, . . . .318 
Chaucer's sources of fable, .... 92 

Chaulieu, ABBic, 302 

Chenier, Andr£, 375 

Chevreuse, Duchess de, 149 

Chivalry, mythology of, 91 

Chivalry, romances of, 66, 67 

Christian de Troyes, 66 

Christianity and the French Revolu- 
tion, by Quinet, 405 

Cid, The, by Corneille, analysis of, . 165 

Cinna, by Corneille, 173 

Cinq-Mars, by De Yigny, 428 

Civilization of Europe, Guizot's His- 
tory of the, 404 

Clement Marot, valet-de-chambre to 

Marguerite de Valois, 117 

Clercs de la Bezoche — Moralities 99, 100 

Comedy 194 

CoMiNES, Philip de, 112 

Compte Rendu, by Necker, .... 380 
Conception, Blystery of the, .... 99 
Conde, Prince of, funeral oration over, 255 
Conde, Prince of, patronizes Boileau, 229 
Condillac and Locke, disciples of, . . 406 

Condillac's first work, 334 

Confessions, by Rousseau, .... 348 
Conquest of England by the Normans, 

by Thierry, 404 

Considerations de la Revolution Fran- 

9aise, by Madame de Stael, . . . 385 
Considerations sur les Causes de la 
Grandeur et de la Decadence des 
Remains, by Montesquieu, . . . 305 
Contes Moraux, by Marmontel, . . 367 
Corinne, by Madame de Stael, . . . 385 
Corneille and the drama, .... 162 
Corneille, Thomas, brother of the 

great Corneille, 194 

Cours de Litterature, by La Harpe, . 368 
Cours de Morale Religieuse, by Necker, 374 
Courts of Love done away with, . . 62 

Their influence, 40 

Cousin, 407 

CiiJiiBiLLON the dramatist, 104 

Cromwell, by Yillemain, 404 

CuvitiR the naturalist, 400 

D'Aguesseau, a judicial orator and 
chancellor, 264 

D'Alemckrt, an encyclopedist, . . . 338 
His character, 331 

Damiron, 406 



PAGE 

Dancourt, a dramatist, 209 

Dante at the Paris university, ... 93 
Dante meets Bertrand de Born in hell, 55 
Dante, sources of his imaginings, . . 92 
De la Sagesse, by Charron, .... 136 
De I'Espinasse, Madame, her salon, . 331 
De I'Esprit, by Helvetius, .... 339 
De Vigny's Cinq-Mars and Stello, . . 404 
Defant, Madame du, her salon, . . . 331 
Delavigne, Casimir, the patriot, . .414 
Delphine, by Madame de Stael, . . . 385 
Depit Amoureux, by Moliere, . . . 203 
Descartes, Bacon, and Luther com- 
pared, 155 

Descartes the philosopher, his great 

influence 153 

Deshoulieres, Madame, 149 

Her Idyls, 245 

Despreaux, a name of Nicholas Boi- 

leau, 226 

Dialogue on Poetry and Music, by 

Boileau, 241 

Dialogues des Heros de Roman, by 

Boileau, 230 

Dialogues des Morts, by Fontenelle, . 304 
Dialogues sur I'Eloquence, by Fenelon, 281 
Dictionnaire Historique et Critique, 

by Bayle, 299 

Diderot, 331, 338 

Discours Academiques, by Racine, . 185 
Discours Preliminaire, by D'Alembert, 837 
Discours sur la Methode, by Descartes, 155 
Discours sur I'llistoire Universelle, by 

Bossuet, 250 

Dix Annees d'Exile, by Madame de 

Stael, 385 

D'Orleans, Charles, Due, a poet, . . 102 

Dramatic poetry, 93 

Du Defant, Madame, her salon, . . 331 
DuFRESNY, writer of comedy, .... 210 
Dumas, Alexandre, Historical Sketches 

by, 404 

Dumas the novelist, 4o0 

DupiN, 406 

Dustutt Tracy, as a philosopher, . . 406 

Ecclesiastical History, by Fleury, . . 272 
Eclectic school of philosophy, . . .406 
Education des Filles, 1', by Fenelon, . 281 

Eighteenth century, 296 

Electre, a wild tragedy, by Crebillon, 194 
Elemens de la Philosophie de Newton, 

by Yoltaire, 318 

Elemens de Litterature, by Mar- 
montel, 367 

Eleonora of Guienne, her court, . . 45 
Eloge de Despreaux, by Voltaire, . . 321 
Eloge de Marc-Aurele, by Thomas, . 367 
Eloges dos Academiciens, by Fon- 
tenelle, 304 

Eloquence of the pulpit and the bar, 246 
Emile, by Rousseau, his educational 

views, 345, 346 

Encyclopedie, 331 

Encyclopedists, 331, 337 



INDEX. 



435 



PAGE 

England, the cradle of French litera- 
ture, 65 

English Literature, History of, by 

Chateaubriand, 398 

English Reyolution, Guizot's History 

of the, 404 

Entretiens de Phocion, by Blably, . 340 
Epic, heroic, first attempt at, due to 

Ronsard, 140 

Epic poets of Europe, no Frenchman 

among the first-class, 141 

Epistle to Ambiguity, by Boileau, . . 241 
Esprit des Lois, by Montesquieu, . . 305 
Essai Analytique sur les Facultes de 

I'Ame, by Bonnet, 342 

Essai sur le Merite et la Vertu, by 

Diderot, 338 

Essai sur les Moyens de conserver la 

Faix avec les Hommes, by Nicole, . 270 
Essai sur I'lndifference en Matiere de 

Religion, by Lamennais. .... 407 

Esther, by Racine, . 184 

Eug:&ne Sue, the maritime novelist, . 428 
Eunuch of Terence, translated by La 

Fontaine, 212 

Examen de la Conscience d'un Roi, by 

Fenelon, 281 

Exposition de la Doctrine Catholique, 

by Bossuet, 251 

Fables and tales in verse, .... 210 

Fables, by Florian, 374 

Fables of Fontaine, ....... 217 

Fabliaux of the trouveres, .... 82 

Fabliaux, origin of the, 74 

Facheux, Les, by Moliere, . . . .199 

Faery Queene, Spenser's, 92 

Falcon, Story of the, by La Fontaine, 212 
Fayette, Madame de la, romance- 
writer, 280 

Femmes Savantes, Les, by Moliere, . 203 

Fenelon, as an author, 281 

Figueiras, William, ....... 56 

Flechier, 247 

Fleury, Abb^, historian, 272 

Fleury, Cardinal, influence of, . . . 330 

Fontaine, Jean de la, 210 

His epitaph, 225 

Morality of his Fables, 220 

FONTENELLE, 303 

Forensic eloquence, 262 

Forensic eloquence and orators, 246, 247 
Fourberies de Scapin, Les, by Moliere, 203 
Fragments Philosophiques, by Cousin, 408 
France, Guizot's Essays on the History 

of, 404 

France, History of, by Mezeray, . .271 
France, History of, by Michelet, . . 405 

Franciad, by Ronsard, 141 

Francis I., attainments of, .... 116 
Francis I., Calvin's Epistle Dedicatory 

to, 126 

Francis I. interdicts the Mysteries and 

Moralities, 100 

Fraternity of the Passion 69 



PAGE 

Frederic the Great, Voltaire assists, . 319 

French Academy named by Richelieu 
(1635), 153 

French idiom overloaded with foreign 
roots and locutions, 141 

French Language, History and charac- 
teristics of the, 13 

French literature, modern, character- 
istics of, 431, 432 

French, the language of the English 
court, 65 

Froissart, 109 

Gai-Saber 37 

Garagantua and Pantagruel, by Ra- 
belais, 122 

Geneva, morality of, 342 

Genie du Christianisme, by Chateau- 
briand 394 

Genius of Religions, The, by Quinet . 406 

Genlis, Madame de, 392 

Geoffrin, Madame, her salon, . . . 331 
George Dandin, by Moliere, .... 203 
Germany, a work of Madame de 

Stael, 384 

Germany and Italy, by Quinet, . . 406 

Gibbon, 331 

Gil Bias, by Le Sage 302 

GiNGUENE. historian of the Italian Lit- 
erature, 406 

Golden Legend of Pierre de Yoragine, 91 
Gramont, Comte, Memoirs of, ... 280 
Grimm, 331 

GUILLAUME DE LORRIS, 79 

GuizoT, as a historian, 404 

Guyon's, Madame, piety, spread of, . 252 

HAmLTON, Count, Memoirs by, . . . 280 
Hardy, Alexander, wrote 1200 plays, 141 
Harmonies, by Lamartine, .... 415 
Helyetius the philosopher, . . 331, 338 
Henri III., a drama by Dumas, . . 430 
Henriade, a poem by Yoltaire, . . . 315 
Heptameron, L', by Marguerite de 

Valois, 117 

Hermit and the Angel, The, .... 92 
Heroic epic, first attempt at, due to 

Ronsard, 140 

Hippocrates and Galen, lectured on by 

Rabelais, 122 

Hippocrates, valuable edition of, by 

Rabelais, 122 

Histoire de Charles XII., by Voltaire, 318 
Histoire de la Conj uration des Espag- 

nols contre Venise, by St. Real, , . 271 
Histoire de la Regne de Louis XIV., 

by Racine, 185 

Histoire des Oracles, by Fontenelle, . 304 
Histoire des Variations, by Bossuet, . 251 
Historians of the philosophical school, 404 
Historians of the symbolical school, . 405 
Historians, schools of, since 1830, 403, 404 
Historical Sketches, by Alexandre 

Dumas, 404 

History and biography, . , . . . 402 



436 



INDEX. 



History and characteristics of the 

French Language, 13 

History and Memoirs — Bossuet, &c., . 271 
History of France, by Mezeray, . . 271 
History of France, Letters on the, by 

Thierry, 404 

Holbach, Baron d', salon of, .... 331 
Horaces, Les, by Corneille, . . . .173 

Hugo, Victor, 414 

As a dramatist, 430 

As a noTelist, 424, 425 

Imitation of Jesus Christ, metrical 

version of the, by Corneille, . . . 174 
Indian Cottage, The, by St. Pierre, 373, 374 
Indies, History of the Two, by Raynal, 370 

Innocent III., Pope, 61 

Institutes of the Christian Religion, 

by Calvin, 125 

Introduction k la Connaissance de 

I'Esprit H amain, by Vauvenargue, 341 
Introduction h la Vie Devote, by St. 

Frangois de Sales, 136 

Irene, a piece by Voltaire, .... 322 

Jansenists, peculiar doctrines of (note), 158 

Jean de Meun, 79 

Jocelyn, a romance, by Lamartine, . 419 
JoDELLE, restorer of the drama, . . .141 
John II., political progress in his reign, 108 
Joinville's Vie de St. Louis, .... 107 

Jonglour, the office of a, 44 

Journey of Charlemagne to Jerusalem 

and Constantinople, The, .... 67 
Julie, by Rousseau, 345 

La Harpe, M. be, 368 

La Motte, lyric poet, 304 

La Raison Encyclopedique, . . . .331 
L'Abb:^ Mably, the moral politician, . 340 

Lafayette, Madame, 149 

Lafosse the dramatist, 194 

Lamartine, 414 

Lamennais, AbbjS de, 407 

Langue d'Oc, 37 

Langue d'Oil, or Romance Wallon, . 64 
Laromiguiere, as a philosopher, . . 406 
Latin infuses vigor into French, , .137 
Latini at the university of Paris, . . 93 
L'Avocat Pathelin, by Brueys, . . .210 
Lay of Lanval, by Marie of France, . 74 
Lays, origin and nature of, .... 74 
Le Bergeret le Roi, fable by Fontaine, 217 
Le Devin du Village, an opera by J. J. 

Rousseau, 355 

Le Joueur, by Regnard, 209 

Le Legataire, by Regnard, .... 209 
Le Mariage Force, by Moli^re, origin 

of (note), 279 

Le Sage, author of Gil Bias, . . . .302 
Le Tartufe, a comedy by Moliere, . . 200 
League. The, an imperfect edition of 

the Henriade, 315 

Leclerc, Georges Louis, or Comte de 

BuFFON, 359 



PAGE 

L'Ecole des Maris, by Molidre, . . . 199 
Lkmaitre, extract from his first plead- 
ing, 262 

Les Dues de Bourgogne, by Barante, 404 
Les £poques de la Nature, by Buffon, 300 

Les Facheux, by Moliere, 11)9 

Les Martyrs, by Chateaubriand, . . 395 
Les Methodes de Port Royal, . . . 158 
Les Natchez, by Chateaubriand, . . 394 
Les Precieuses Ridicules, a comedy, 

by Moliere, 196 

L'Essai sur les Moeurs des Nations, by 

Voltaire, 326 

L'Essai sur I'Origine des Connaissances 
Humaines, by Condillac, .... 334 

L'Etourdi, by Moliere, 203 

Letters from the Mountain, by Rous- 
seau, 347 

Lettres Galantes, by Fontenelle, . . 303 
Lettres Persanes, by Montesquieu, . 305 
Lettres Philosophiques, by Voltaire, . 317 
Lettres Provinciales, by Pascal, . . 157 
Lettres sur les Aveugles, by Diderot, 338 
L'Heptameron, ou I'histoire des Am- 
ants Fortunes, by Marguerite de 

Valois, 117 

L'Histoire du Siecle de Louis XIV., by 

Voltaire, 326 

Literary criticism in connexion with 

history, 406 

Literary societies take their rise in 

France (1610-1642), 148 

Literature after the revolution of 1830, 422 
Literatures of the South of Europe, by 

Quinet, 406 

Litterature Extravagante, La, . . . 423 
Litterature Frangaise au dix-huiti^me 

Siecle, by Barante, 404 

Locke and Condillac, disciples of, . . 406 
Longinus, translated with critical 
notes by Boileau, 241 

LONGUEVILLE, DUCHESS DE, . . . . . 149 

Louis-le-Germanique, Oath of, . . . 63 
Louis XL, Comines best depicts the 

last days of, 113 

Louis XIV., age of 176 

Luther, Life of, by Michelet, . . . .405 
Lutrin, mock-heroic poem of Boileau, 

origin of, 232 

Lyric Muse, Ronsard herald of the, . 140 
Lyric Poetry cultivated, 90 

Maintenon, Madame de, letters of, . 294 
Malade Imaginaire, Le, by Moliere, . 206 
Malebranche, the speculative philo- 
sopher, 270 

Malherbe, reformer of poetry, . 142, 143 

Malleville the poet 144 

Marechale d'Ancre, by De Vigny, . . 430 

Marguerite de Valois, 116 

Marie of France, 74 

Marinism in French, 144 

Marion Delorme, by Victor Hugo, . . 430 

Marmontel, character of 331 

Marmontel, J. F., author of Belisaire, 367 



INDEX. 



437 



PAGE 

Marot and Ronsard compared, . . . 139 
Marot, Clement, the poet, .... 117 

A specimen of his French .... 119 
Martyrs, Les, by Chateaubriand, . . 395 

Marveil, Arnaud de, 46 

Massillon, 247, 258 

Massillon, on the small number of the 

elect, quotation, 260 

Mathurin Regnier, satires of, . . . 142 
Maximes des Saintes, by Fenelon, 253, 281 
Maximes Morales, by Rochefoucauld, 266 
Mazarin, Cardinal, introduces the 

Italian Opera, 194 

Mazarin, portrait of, 275 

Meditations, by Lamartine, .... 415 
Melite, the first comedy of Corneille, . 163 
Memoire, by Racine, its fate, . . .184 

Memoires, by Bran tome, 272 

Jlemoires, by Cardinal de Retz, . . 273 
Memoires du Comte de Gramont, . . 280 
Memoires sur le Regne d'Anne d'Aut- 

riche, by Rochefoucauld, . . . .26' 

M6moires, writers of, 272 

Menteur, Le, by Corneille, . . . .173 

Merim£e, Prosper, 429 

Merlin, Romance of, 66 

Messeniennes, the elegiacs of Dela- 

vigue, 414 

Mezeray, the historian, 271 

Michelet and Quinet, as historians, . 405 

Middle Ages, 35 

Mignet, as a historian, 404 

Milton, his first idea, an epic on 

Arthur, 73 

Misanthrope. Le, by Moliere, . . , 203 

Mock-heroic poetry, 226 

Modern History, Compendium of, by 

Michelet, 405 

Moliere's life, works, and real name, 195 
Montaigne, death of, 1592, .... 136 

The most eminent type of scepticism, 126 

His Essays, 126 

Montesquieu, Baron de, 305 

Moralists, the — Rochefoucauld, La 

Bruyere, Nicole, 265 

Moralities, invention of the, . . . .100 
Morgue, the dead-house {note), . . . 423 
My Holidays in Spain, by Quinet, . 406 
Mysteries and Moralities of the middle 

ages, earliest specimen of, . . . 95, 96 
Mysteries, character of the stages on 

which they were acted, 100 

Mysteries of Paris, by Eugene Sue, . 429 
Mythologies, the three great, ... 91 

Namur, Robert de. Lord of Montfort, 109 
Nanine, a comedy by Voltaire, . . . 323 
Natchez, Les. by Chateaubriand, . . 394 

Nativity, mystery of the, 99 

Necker, Monsieur, 374 

Nineteenth century, 378 

Nisard, a literary historian, .... 406 
Nisard, Histoire de la Litterature 

Frangai.^e, par 33 

Noble Lesson of the Vaudois, The, . 61 
37* 



PAGE 

Norman-French language, .... 64 
Normans, invasion of the, .... 64 
Notre Dame de Paris, by Victor Hugo, 425 
Nouvelle Heloise, a romance, by Rous- 
seau, 345 

Nouvelles de la Republique des Let- 

tres, by Bayle, 299 

Novels and dramas, 422 

Observations sur I'Histoire de France, 

by Mably, 340 

Ode, first attempt at, due to Ronsard, 140 
Ode sur la Prise de Namur, by Boileau, 239 
(Edipe, a tragedy, by Voltaire, . . . 315 
Orleans, Charles, Duke of, ... . 102 

Pantagruel, Gargantua and, by Ra- 
belais, 122 

Parnell's Hermit, source of, ... . 92 

Pascal, Blaise, 156 

Passion, Mystery of the, . . . . 95, 96 
Patru, an improver of forensic style, . 262 
Paul and Virginia, by St. Pierre, . . 373 
Pellisson, secretary of Fouquet, . .262 
Pensees de la Religion, Pascal's master- 
piece, 157 

Pensees sur la Comete, by Bayle, . . 299 

People, The, by Michelet, 406 

Periods of French literature, ... 34 

Pertharite, by Corneille, 174 

Phedre, by Racine, 183 

Philippa of Hainault, Queen, employs 

Froissart, 110 

Philosophers of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, 330 

Philosophical school of historians, . . 404 
Philosophy — Descartes and Pascal, . 153 

Philosophy, speculative, 406 

Pieces of Gallantry, by Pellisson, . . 264 
Pierre Vidal, the troubadour, ... 47 

PiSAN, Christine de, 101 

Ode on the death of her father, . . 101 
Plaideurs, Les, by Racine, .... 183 
Pluralite des Mondes, by Fontenelle, 304 
Poetry in the fifteenth century, . . 101 

Poetry, new features in, 409 

Poictiers, William, Earl of .... 42 
Politique de i'jficriture Sainte, La, by 

Bossuet, 250 

Polyeucte, by Corneille, 173 

Poquelin, Jean Baptiste, Moliere's 

real name, 196 

Port Royal aux Champs, the abbey of, 157 
Prayers during Mass, by Pellisson, . 264 
Precieuses Ridicules, Les, by Moliere, 

196, 197 
Premier Chant de I'Art Poetique, by 

Boileau, 242 

Prevost, Abbe, 303 

Priests, Women, and Families, by 

Michelet, 405 

Principes de Morale, by the Abbe 

Mably, ,340 

Prose, early French, 105 

Provengal grammars, 40 



438 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

Provengal language and poetry, . 35, 36 
Provence, independent sovereignty of, 39 
Pucelle d'Orleans, by Voltaire, . . . 319 

Pucelle, La, by Chapelle, 228 

Pulpit eloq[uence, 246 

QuiNAULT, the lyric tragedian, . . . 194 
QuiNET, as a historian, 405 



Rabelais, Francis, 

Character of his satires, 

The tvpe of La Renaissance, . . , 

Racan (1589-1670), . 

Racine, life and works of, 

His Odes, Epigrams, &c., . . . . 

Raimbaud de Vaqueiras, 

Rambouillet, Madame de, hStel of, 

Raoul-Rochette, 

Raynal, l'Abbe, 331, 

Recherche a la Yerite, by Malebranche, 
Recueil de I'Academie des Inscriptions, 
Reflexions et Sentences, ou Maximes 

Morales, by Rochefoucauld, . . . 

Regnard the dramatist, 

Regnier, Mathurin, 

Religion, mythology of, 

Renaissance and Reform, 

Rene, by Chateaubriand, 

Renouard's Provencal Poetry, . . . 
Repues Franches, by Yillon, .... 
Resurrection, Mystery of the, . . . 
Retz, Cardinal de, Memoirs by, 
Revenons k nos moutons, origin of this 

proverb, 

Revolutionary spirit, effects of, . 330, 
Reynard the Fox, Adventures of, . . 
Rhadamiste, a wild tragedy by Crebil- 

lon, 

Richard I., a troubadour, .... 

Richelieu, portrait of, 

Rimes Heroiques, by Barbier, . . . 
Rochefoucauld, Francis, Duke of, 

Rollin the historian, 

Romance and letter-writing, . . . , 

Romance of Brutus, 

Romance of Merlin, 

Romance of Roux, 

Romance of Saint-Graal, 

Romance of the Rose, 

Romance, original application of the 

word, 

Romantic scbool of the nineteenth 

century, 

Ronsard and Marot compared, . . . 
Rousseau, Jean Baptiste, a lyric poet, 
Rousseau, Jean Jacques, 

Epitaph on his tomb 

Roux, Romance of, 

Royer-Collard, 

Rue He — space round the bed of Ma- 
dame de Rambouillet, ..... 



120 
124 
125 

245 
180 
185 
57 
149 
406 
370 
271 
370 

266 
209 
142 

91 
114 
394 
406 
104 

99 
. 273 

100 
331 

82 

194 

58 

274 

421 

265 
272 
280 
66 
66 
72 
66 
79 

72 



Saint-Graal, Romance of, 66 

Sand, George (Madame Dudevant), 
the novelist, 428 



page 
Satan, a personage in poetry, ... 90 
Satire Menippee, an anonymous politi- 
cal satire, 137 

Satires in Latin verse against the 

clergy, 93 

Satirical poetry, 226 

Saurin, a's a Protestant divine, . . . 261 
Sceptical and revolutionary spirit tri- . 

umphant, 329 

Scepticism, dawn of, 296 

Scott, Sir Walter, a model to the 
French descriptive school of novel- 
ists, 



404 

126 

160 
406 
406 



Scriptures, Calvin's Commentary on 

the 

ScuDERY, Mademoiselle de, .... 

S^GUR, 

Sensualistic school of philosophy, . . 
Sermons ou (Euvres Spirituelles, by 

Fenelon, 281 

SiiviGNE, Madame de, ...... 149 

Her letters, 289 

Sirventes, character of the, .... 50 
Sismondi's Literature of Southern 

Europe, 406 

Social Contract, The, by Rousseau, . 345 

Sordello of Mantua, 49 

Speculative philosophers, schools of, . 406 
Spenser's sources of the Faery Queene, 92 
St. Beuve, a literary historian, . . . 406 

St. Franqois de Sales, 136 

St. R^al the historian, 271 

St. Simon, Due de. Memoirs by, . .276 

Stael, Madame de, 373 

Sue, Eugene, the maritime novelist, . 428 
Sully, Duke of, writer of Memoirs, . 273 
Supplement au Voyage de Bougain- 
ville, by Diderot, 338 

Swift, Dean, indebted to Rabelais, . .125 
Symbolical school of historians, . . . 405 

Tales, collection of, by Fontaine, . .212 

Telemaque, by Fenelon, 281 

Tensons, or poetic dialogues, ... 40 
Theatre, ancient, described, .... 94 

Theatre of Racine, 185 

Theatricals, 94 

Theba'ide, first drama of Bacine, . .182 
Theological school of philosophy, . . 406 

Thibaud III. a lyric poet, 90 

Thierry the historian, 404 

Thiers, as a historian, 404 

Thomas, an orator, 367 

Tragedy, 180 

Traito des Sensations, by Condillac, . 334 
Transition, age of, 1500-1650, . . .114 

Trois Pclerinages, 80 

Troubadour songs, character of, . . 40 

Troubadours, the, 35 

Trouvere Poetry, 91, 92 

Trouveres, the, . 63 

TJltramontanism, by Quinet, . . . 406 
University of Paris, importance of 
the, 93 



INDEX. 



439 



PAOE 

Valois, Marguerite de, 116 

Vaqueiras, Raimbaud de, 57 

Vaudois, the Xoble Lesson of the. . . 61 
Yaiidois, toleration and persecutions 

of the, 61 

Vauvenargue, Marquis de, . . . . 341 

Vextadour, Bernard ds, 45 

Vergne, Mademoiselle de la, . . . 149 
Vericour, author of Modern French 

Literature {note), 403 

Tico, Life of, hy Michelet, .... 405 
Victor Hugo, 414 

As a novelist, 424, 425 

As a poet, 419 

Tidal, Pierre, 47 

A^ies des Dames Galantes, by Brantome, 273 
Vies des Dames Illustres, by Brantome, 272 
Ties des Grands Capitaines Strangers, 

by Brantome, 273 

Vies des Hommes Illustres et Grands 

Capitaines Francais, by Brantome, 

272, 273 I 



PAGE 

YiGNT, Alfred de, a lyric poet, . . . 427 

As a dramatist, . 430 

Ville-Hardouin, Chronicle of, the 

earliest French prose, 105 

Villemain, a literary historian, . '. . 406 

Author of Cromwell, 404 

Villon, a poet, 103 

ViNET, a literary historian, .... 406 

Virgil Travestied, 147 

VoiTURE, works of, 144 

Volney, as a philosopher, 406 

Voltaire, .■ . . 312 

As a critic, 326 

His death, 323 

Voyage (le) d'Anacharsis, by Barthe- 
lemy, 374 

Walloons or Waelchs, their language, 63 
Walpole, 331 

William Earl oe Poictiers, .... 42 
William the Conqueror's code, ... 65 
Women in the chivalrous times, . . 39 



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